ALL FOURS, by Miranda July
Erica Jong’s Isadora Wing feared flying, but womanned up to attend the first psychoanalytic conference in Vienna since the Holocaust. Fifty years later, the unnamed heroine of Miranda July’s new novel, “All Fours” — let’s call her Amanda Huggenkiss — can barely begin a cross-country road trip.
Huggenkiss — aah, never mind — the anonymous narrator is five years from 50 herself: a “semi-famous” artist with a desk that’s a little wobbly and a career to match. “I worked in so many mediums that I was able to debut many times,” she recounts. “I just kept emerging, like a bud opening over and over again.”
She’s married to a music producer, Harris, who divides people up not into hedgehogs and foxes but Drivers and Parkers. The former, like himself, are functional and content. The latter, like his wife, are bored by ordinary life but, craving applause, thrive in tight spots and emergencies.
One was the birth of their baby, Sam (a nonbinary “theyby”), after the kind of fetal-maternal hemorrhage that often results in stillbirth. Mrs. Harris is ecstatic about her child, now a second grader — taking weekly candlelit baths with them, she weeps with love — but she feels her parenting efforts, which include massaging kale for a five-part bento box lunch, go underrecognized or criticized. And her sex life, which is dependent on fantasy, a.k.a. “mind-rooted,” has suffered. Sometimes when she delays initiating, she can hear her body-rooted husband’s penis “whistling impatiently like a teakettle.”
After a whiskey company unexpectedly licenses one of her saucy sentences for $20,000, she decides to splurge for her birthday on a room at the Carlyle, the fancy-pants hotel on New York’s Upper East Side. But, starting from Los Angeles, she only makes it as far as a motel in the nearby suburb of Monrovia. And that’s when things get weird in that Miranda July way that some critics find the ne plus ultra of twee (Harris twee?) and I happen to enjoy very much, with a few caveats.
Angst about the change of life — what Jong would call “Fear of Fifty” — seems a family curse. At 55, the narrator’s paternal grandmother had fatally flung herself out the window, first considerately placing herself in a garbage bag; an Aunt Ruthie followed; and her own mother is cognitively impaired and hard of hearing (while her father perpetually occupies a “deathfield” of depression and panic). But she is most immediately concerned with losing her looks and libido: of falling off, what she sees on a graph of shifting hormones over a life span, the “estrogen cliff.”
She blows her windfall to redo Room 321 in lavish and idiosyncratic style, carpeted in New Zealand wool and scented with tonka beans, then begins a torrid and all-consuming romance with the decorator’s husband, a hip-hop hobbyist named Davey who works at Hertz and resembles Gilbert Blythe from the “Anne of Green Gables” series. (Blythe and a Grand Parterre Sarouk carpet are the kinds of allusions July drops for her cultivated audience without explanation.)
A few words about the sex in “All Fours,” which is titled for what the narrator’s best friend, a sculptor, calls “the most stable position. Like a table.” (Well, not a wobbly one.) It is gaspingly graphic, sometimes verging on gross (urine, tampons and a suspected polyp — “hopefully benign”— all come into play), and supplemented with masturbation galore. Compelled to read these definitely not twee-rated passages, I briefly considered filing a complaint with human resources. Then I remembered the protracted and messy sex scenes released with such fanfare into the culture by Philip Roth, Harold Brodkey, et al., and decided I was being discriminatory and prudish.
Jong popularized the idea of “zipless” intercourse (more snappily than that); July’s term is “bottomless.” Her perimenopausal protagonist’s desire is insatiable, unfathomable, roving across genders and generations: a kind of supernova of lust preceding what she anticipates will be the black hole of senescence.
Even more than this adulterous appetite, her casual ageism, in a milieu where preferred pronouns are sacred, can shock. “Nobody except the doctor knew — or could even conceive of — what was going on between her legs,” she thinks of a woman in her 70s glimpsed in the gynecologist’s office, imagining “gray labia, long and loose.” (Paging Arnold Kegel!) And, buying a 1920s bedspread from a “free spirit” at an antique mall: “Sometimes my hatred of older women almost knocked me over, it came so abruptly.”
Hatred is fear-based, of course — and you come to understand that the main character’s real journey will not be on Route 66, but the path to self-acceptance. In order to ride shotgun comfortably, though, you have to accept her preoccupation with the reflection in the rearview mirror; her indifference to any current affairs but her own.
When this unnamed She spray-paints “CALL ME” on a chair for the now-estranged Davey, it’s like John Cusack’s boombox serenade in “Say Anything.” When she posts a wild dance on Instagram after firming her own body at the gym, frantically seeking his Like, it’s like the boombox turned up to arena volume.
Are the mental-health professionals back from Europe yet? One pops up late on Harris’s arm, as the marriage reconfigures, but otherwise they’re strangely absent from “All Fours,” whose woman on the verge of chronological maturity has the intense focus of an artist, sure — but also a yearning adolescent.
ALL FOURS | By Miranda July | Riverhead | 336 pp. | $29
