Weight

Weight
By Jeanette Winterson

I have to give my mom her due credit. Throughout my life she has suggested authors I'd like (Gide, Calvino, O'Toole and many more) and I usually ignore her at my own peril before eventually reading them and regretting not doing it years ago. Jeneatte Winterson is one of these authors. It wasn't until my narrative theory professor made me read one of her short stories (the most graphic depiction of lesbian sex I've read for class since grade school) that I finally understood why my mom had been badgering me. Winterson grasps post-modernism in a way no other author I've read does, she swims in it like a fish while other authors doggie-paddle to stay above the water line.
Weight is a re-telling of the myth of Atlas and Heracles with Winterton's signature firm touch. Heracles is basically the frat-boy we would be instead of the Disney hero. It feels like Winterson understands and embraces the brutal sensuality of the Greek myths that we seek to sanitize.
Atlas is long-struggling Christ figure, but his fight is more with himself than with socialism, sorry Ayn Rand.
To just tell the story wouldn't be good enough for Winterson. She integrates autobiographical elements and a Soviet astro-dog to add facets of the Atlas story not normally discussed. She manages to make the break between the (semi)mimetic and non-mimetic cleanly enough not to bother me. It doesn't feel like an exercise, but rather a confession.
Using a familiar myth that already has so much attached to discuss what our pasts mean to our futures is a tough burden, but Winterson shrugs it off with her overwhelming ability. The book is about 150 pages, read it in one sitting, it'll take you about an hour and a half.