I just started reading Miriam Toews’ ‘The Flying Troutmans.’
Marc…was heading off to an ashram in India anyway and said we could communicate telepathically. I tried it a couple of days before he left. I love you, don’t go, I said silently, without moving my lips. He was standing next to me, trying to photograph a gargoyle. You’re a little in my way, he said. Can you move?
How is that not funny?
A Complicated Kindness is also good.
Just read Tayari’s link to the Jezebel post about the NYT article. Women writers aren’t funny! Just off the top of my head:
- Florence King. Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady. Made me laugh until I was stupid.
- Dodie Smith. I Capture the Castle. A gentler humor, but seriously funny.
- I’d even argue that a lot of The Country Girls trilogy by Edan O’Brien is comedy.
- Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, the 1925 Anita Loos novel, not the 1953 Marilyn Monroe vehicle.
- The Egg and I, by Betty MacDonald. OK, so it’s a memoir, not a novel. Still.
- Bridget Jones’ Diary. Chick-lit? Sure. Spawner of a thousand pink-covered saccharine imitations and responsible for the current plague of clumsy heroines? Guilty. Funny? Definitely.
And I don’t even have my bookshelf in front of me.
Of course, Tayari asked for funny women of color, and that’s, sadly, a lot harder.