Porochista Khakpour’s memoir, Sick, raises a similar temptation, although her abundant, sometimes sloppy prose couldn’t be more different from Mailhot’s. “Because I’m an Indian woman someone might call my work raw and disregard the craft of making something appear raw.” Point taken: to see the book as “raw” is to mistake Mailhot’s searing minimalism for something simpler and more spontaneous. “The danger politically or artistically is that people won’t give me my craft,” Mailhot says in an interview with poet Joan Kane. I might be tempted to describe Terese Mailhot’s new memoir, Heart Berries, as “raw,” had she not warned against it.
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