Take a photo of a barcode or cover
A review by realkateschmate
Patience and Sarah, by Isabel Miller
4.0
Patience and Sarah, the beloved lesbian historical fiction novel originally self-published by Isabel Miller in 1969, was inspired by and dedicated to real people of whom very little is known. Miller discovered the fact of their existence, and despite her best efforts was unable to dig up more. She knew only that a Mary Ann Wilson and a Miss Brundidge lived in Greene County, New York State, in 1820, were respectively painter and "farmerette," and had a romantic attachment. Knowing so little set her free to write a lovely and deeply felt story.
In sections of alternating viewpoints, Miller has Patience and Sarah meet, discover an instant attraction and connection, be parted (violently), take a sojourn of self-discovery, reunite, form an attachment of greater and growing commitment and complexity, and determine to make an attempt at a life together. The narratives exist easily in their early 19th c. setting; Miller's prose and historical detail are attentive to this, but not at all weighed down by it. Each section has a slightly different tone and style. Bridging the matter-of-fact and anxious first half, and the clear-headed but complex road to the ending, are the middle chapters, written in second person, narrated by Patience and directed to Sarah, at a time when their lust and love are at their most rapturous; this section is a lush prose poem.
This book is a celebration of and joy-taking in women, love of women, women's bodies. Although Sarah is a boyish figure - quite literally, as she was raised by her father to be a boy because no sons were born in their large family - Patience's love and attraction for her are for her womanliness, for the fact that her mannish clothing and ways cannot hide her curves and feelings. Sarah for a time tries to pass as a young man and discovers that while her physical resemblance may be apt, the identity (though that word is never used) is in some ways antithetical to hers. There's a lovely passage from Patience about Sarah's occasional adoption of the male image:
Time enough later to teach her that it's better to be a real woman than an imitation man, and that when someone chooses a woman to go away with it's because a woman is what's preferred.
Nor is the love of women expressed shyly or coyly. The physical intimacy between the characters is relished, often and in many forms, from gazes to kisses to caresses to a somewhat evasively worded but still passionately heated beyond.
Patience and Sarah have to invent how to live their love together, having never seen an example of it, and likewise Miller had few if any instructive antecedents in crafting this novel. This latter fact lends power and beauty to the former. The reader truly feels the newness of the path being forged. There is no script to follow for the characters, or for the author. This is nothing so banal as a novelty; it's true originality. In spite of these being some of the oldest questions we have, Miller is able to credibly ask us: how do we love another person? What is the balance of me and you? How should we combine respect and deference with passion and assertiveness? How does one create a role for oneself? What is the difference between shame and caution? Are all lies bad? How much is too much worship? Why is arousal inconstant? What should I give you, and what must I stay out of?
Adding to the depth and nuance is Miller's treatment of class. Patience is fairly well-to-do, literate, educated, and in possession of some means, while Sarah is hardscrabble working class, initially illiterate, intelligent but uneducated, and penniless. These facts don't dampen the characters' feelings for one another but do shape the reactions of their families, determine the possibilities for escape, and inform how they intermix with people at large. For example, Patience's upper-class diction and comportment instill in others a respect that brings safety, whereas Sarah's speech and mannerisms mark her as poor and therefore vulnerable; discovering this, they decide that Sarah, in the company of strangers, should be silent and aloof, pretending to be too rich and important to bother speaking. (There's some comedy wrung out of this example.)
It's so beautiful that Miller, with the sparse set of facts about the Misses Wilson and Brundidge, assumed a happy existence for these women living out their private marriage. Not only because it was rare at the time of writing, before the emergence of second-wave feminism and when lesbian romance in fiction almost invariably ended in tragedy - but because of how it opened up the possibilities for the novel. It is a fresh and lovely read that belies the intricacy of its depths.
In sections of alternating viewpoints, Miller has Patience and Sarah meet, discover an instant attraction and connection, be parted (violently), take a sojourn of self-discovery, reunite, form an attachment of greater and growing commitment and complexity, and determine to make an attempt at a life together. The narratives exist easily in their early 19th c. setting; Miller's prose and historical detail are attentive to this, but not at all weighed down by it. Each section has a slightly different tone and style. Bridging the matter-of-fact and anxious first half, and the clear-headed but complex road to the ending, are the middle chapters, written in second person, narrated by Patience and directed to Sarah, at a time when their lust and love are at their most rapturous; this section is a lush prose poem.
This book is a celebration of and joy-taking in women, love of women, women's bodies. Although Sarah is a boyish figure - quite literally, as she was raised by her father to be a boy because no sons were born in their large family - Patience's love and attraction for her are for her womanliness, for the fact that her mannish clothing and ways cannot hide her curves and feelings. Sarah for a time tries to pass as a young man and discovers that while her physical resemblance may be apt, the identity (though that word is never used) is in some ways antithetical to hers. There's a lovely passage from Patience about Sarah's occasional adoption of the male image:
Time enough later to teach her that it's better to be a real woman than an imitation man, and that when someone chooses a woman to go away with it's because a woman is what's preferred.
Nor is the love of women expressed shyly or coyly. The physical intimacy between the characters is relished, often and in many forms, from gazes to kisses to caresses to a somewhat evasively worded but still passionately heated beyond.
Patience and Sarah have to invent how to live their love together, having never seen an example of it, and likewise Miller had few if any instructive antecedents in crafting this novel. This latter fact lends power and beauty to the former. The reader truly feels the newness of the path being forged. There is no script to follow for the characters, or for the author. This is nothing so banal as a novelty; it's true originality. In spite of these being some of the oldest questions we have, Miller is able to credibly ask us: how do we love another person? What is the balance of me and you? How should we combine respect and deference with passion and assertiveness? How does one create a role for oneself? What is the difference between shame and caution? Are all lies bad? How much is too much worship? Why is arousal inconstant? What should I give you, and what must I stay out of?
Adding to the depth and nuance is Miller's treatment of class. Patience is fairly well-to-do, literate, educated, and in possession of some means, while Sarah is hardscrabble working class, initially illiterate, intelligent but uneducated, and penniless. These facts don't dampen the characters' feelings for one another but do shape the reactions of their families, determine the possibilities for escape, and inform how they intermix with people at large. For example, Patience's upper-class diction and comportment instill in others a respect that brings safety, whereas Sarah's speech and mannerisms mark her as poor and therefore vulnerable; discovering this, they decide that Sarah, in the company of strangers, should be silent and aloof, pretending to be too rich and important to bother speaking. (There's some comedy wrung out of this example.)
It's so beautiful that Miller, with the sparse set of facts about the Misses Wilson and Brundidge, assumed a happy existence for these women living out their private marriage. Not only because it was rare at the time of writing, before the emergence of second-wave feminism and when lesbian romance in fiction almost invariably ended in tragedy - but because of how it opened up the possibilities for the novel. It is a fresh and lovely read that belies the intricacy of its depths.