Quotation Study: I Who Have Never Known Men, Jacqueline Harpman
This is not necessarily a review. I just love analysing and unpacking quotes and individual words within them. However, as a general rule if I underline lots of quotes it’s usually a highly rated book
This is not necessarily a review. I just love analysing and unpacking quotes and individual words within them. However, as a general rule if I underline lots of quotes it’s usually a highly rated book!
These are studies of quotes within certain novels—either unpacking larger themes or simply exploring how each quote makes me feel on its own. I like applying quotes to my life; I want to relate to them and put meaning to feelings I’ve never known how to describe. So, welcome to Quotation Studies.
There will be no rhyme or reason here. Just pure thoughts sprawled out onto a page. It’s just me enjoying each word as a former literature student who misses unpacking language!
This week, it’s Jacqueline Harpman’s I Who Have Never Known Men. This was one of my favourite novels of 2024 and reignited my love for dystopian fiction. It’s full of philosophical complexities and speaks volumes about society without explicitly stating anything.
‘Since I barely venture outside these days, I spend a lot of time in one of the armchairs, rereading the books. I only recently started taking an interest in prefaces. The authors talk readily about themselves, explaining their reasons for writing the book.’
The novel opens with this passage, which is, in fact, the end. This retrospective framing sets the stage for the protagonist's journey, reflecting on how far they have come. What I find particularly compelling about this is its resonance with my own relationship with prefaces. A preface offers a glimpse into an author’s intentions, shaping the entire reading experience. It’s fascinating how a few lines can provide such profound insight into the novel’s purpose. I, too, used to skip prefaces, but now I realise they can be among the most illuminating parts of a book, revealing the layers of meaning yet to unfold. In a way, engaging with a preface challenges the notion of "the death of the author," as it demands consideration of the author's voice and intent. Reflecting on this quote, I think I’ll explore my favourite prefaces or epigraphs in a future piece.
‘Is there satisfaction in the effort of remembering that provides its own nourishment, and is what one recollects less important than the act of remembering?’
At its core, the novel delves into the act of remembering. The narrator is constantly engaged in recollection—but how reliable is their memory? The novel explores the fragility of memory and the power it holds in shaping our understanding of the past. It raises an intriguing idea: is the process of remembering itself more satisfying than the actual content of what is recalled? There is an undeniable satisfaction in retrieving experiences that are slowly fading, in forcing them to linger a little longer in our consciousness. Memory acts as a safeguard against the erasure of history.
However, remembering differs from merely recalling. Recalling seems passive, bringing forth information readily accessible in our minds, akin to active recall in revision. Remembering, on the other hand, is an active, almost laborious process—a deep excavation of thoughts buried in our subconscious, bringing them back into existence, illuminating them once more. It’s a process of revival.
‘My memory begins with my anger.’
Memory, however, is not always a source of comfort. It can also be painful. Some memories are best left undisturbed, yet anger often serves as the catalyst for recollection. This line suggests that memory and emotion are intertwined; anger, though difficult, can be a necessary force in reclaiming experiences that might otherwise be lost to time. Looking at books written recently, particularly by those of a minority, they often begin with anger. And to be honest with you. Most of my writing begins with anger.
‘She couldn’t understand why someone would want knowledge that would be of no use to them, and I couldn’t get anything out of her.’
The novel touches on the theme of knowledge as power. The unnamed protagonist is held captive with grown women who once knew the outside world, whereas she did not. Although such knowledge might seem useless in their confined reality, its intrinsic value remains. The idea of hoarding knowledge is deeply relevant today, reflecting the dangers of gatekeeping information. When knowledge is withheld, it limits potential and perpetuates control. I love sharing my knowledge, it’s one of the reasons why I write. And one of the reasons for my substack uni!
‘I must be lacking in certain experiences that make a person fully human.’
This concept fascinates me—the notion that certain experiences are prerequisites to humanity. It raises profound questions: what does it truly mean to be human? Is humanity defined by more than just a physical existence? The statement invites reflection on how knowledge and experience shape our identity, and whether this perspective is inherently exclusionary. Philosophies of knowledge often seek to define what it means to know, but they frequently overlook or marginalise certain experiences and voices.
‘The fact was, I could use my thoughts as I pleased, the idea of wasting them was absurd’
Just one more thought on Harpman’s comments of knowledge and using our mind. We have our own free will over our thoughts. If you want to fantasize about a fictional lover, then so be it. Thoughts cannot be wasted if they bring contentment and serve a purpose. Our minds do not need to be filled with facts 24/7—that’s exhausting. There is value in daydreaming, in allowing our thoughts to wander freely without the pressure of utility or productivity. This quote encapsulates the freedom and personal agency we have in shaping our inner worlds and in some cases the outer world too.
‘Every thirty days, I say to myself that a month has gone by, but those are mere words, they don’t really give me time’
I digress to another philosophical concept—time is a social construct. I think we all say that line often enough. I loved the exploration of this in the novel—the idea that time is words, routine, and thoughts. That we could, if capitalism weren’t a thing, create our own month. It could be as long or as short as we wish.
‘Perhaps you never have time when you are alone’
But yes, time is defined by others. It’s perhaps necessary for a society—or even just two people—to live by. We fall into rhythm as we march side by side with another. I know that my time has coincided with my partner’s time. I can’t do X because I need to do X for him, and vice versa. Our times need to become one.
‘The old women were as helpless as the younger ones. They had seized some imaginary power, a power over nothing. A tacit agreement that created a meaningless hierarchy, because there were no privileges that they could grant or refuse.’
Alongside time, there’s also the artificial concept of hierarchy—whether it’s older women over younger women or at work, where the boss is assumed to know best but is really just enforcing another form of authoritarian control. Where does this imaginary power come from? What gives their knowledge or opinion the right to triumph over someone else’s? It’s all fake power. Linking back to memory brings rage—I feel rage as I write this, remembering all the times people have used a predetermined hierarchy to impose unnecessary order.
‘She’d inherited a tradition to which I did not belong: when an older woman asks a younger woman to reply, the younger one does so.’
It is exactly that. A tradition that is not inevitable. People prefer to stick to what is known, but what is known is not necessarily what is best or right.
‘Something that everybody does becomes meaningless. It’s just a habit, a custom; nobody knows when it started, they just repeat it mechanically.’
It’s a striking observation about how repetition drains meaning from even the most intentional actions. Once something becomes routine—performed en masse and without reflection—it risks losing its value, becoming an empty gesture rather than a purposeful act.
And I can’t help but think of my own writing when I read this. I love being metatextual and referencing Substack in my work, and I think this idea applies here perfectly. I post my monthly reading wrap-ups, but so does everyone else. At a certain point, there are so many of them that they start to blur together, becoming just another part of the endless content churn. What was once a thoughtful reflection on my reading turns into something routine, mechanical—just another drop in an ocean of similar posts.
It makes me wonder: when does sharing become oversharing? When does expression become noise? And is meaning lost in the sheer volume of it all, or do we just need to engage with it differently?
‘It is strange that I am dying from a diseased womb, I who have never known men’
Let’s come full circle. I started with a quote about prefaces, and now we’ve arrived at the novel’s title. I love when writers weave the title into the story—though only when it feels natural, not forced. When it’s done well, everything clicks into place, leaving you with the sense that a masterpiece has been crafted. Perhaps this will be another piece (or list) I write at some point.