A Woman Unknown [Tapa blanda]

This is an extraordinary book written by the daughter of one of my favorite writers: Robert Graves (I, Claudius; Goodby to All That). Her prose is lyrical, near poetical. She is truly a woman of letters, a careful crafter of complex and beautiful writing.

It is the story of her life, written not as biography, but more as a long letter to a friend. Her presentation is not necessarily chronological, not necessarily sequential, but always emotionally rich and revealing of the construction of her soul, layer by layer, starting as a child. If the facts of the book skip around, her development from child to young lady to mother to divorcee to woman in love does not vary from its relentless order. Without attempting to be so, it is a truly feminist tract lacking bitterness or resentments.

I found some extraordinary parallels between Lucia's childhood and mine, even if they don't include gender: I too moved to Majorca as a small child, learned the local language (Mallorquín)and so became trilingual with English and Spanish, attended elementary school with nuns, knew the landscape around where Lucia lived, and thus was immediately able to recognize a beach she describes as one I had ofted bathed in (Sóller). These coincidences -of which there are many more- biased me in favor of her book instantly, and perhaps rendered the reading of her work a different and more satisfying experience than it will be to the average reader who has never been to this island; on the positive side, my experience allows me to certify to Ms. Graves's extraordinary capacity to describe the feel, color and culture of the island. She does this better than any other writer I have ever encountered who attempted to speak about Mallorca. The true universalism of her book, however, lies in the description of her interior development, and that is what this work is finally all about. I recommend it highly.

Concha Alborg's review of "A Woman Unknown" is riddled with errors.

She leaves an erroneous impression when she writes "Lucia Graves is the daughter of Robert Graves, the English poet who lived in Majorca with his Spanish wife and children for several years." Lucia is the daughter of Robert Graves and his second wife, which "A Woman Unknown" clearly states on page 6. it's also clear from the text that Lucia's mother is English. There's a great deal of information about her in this autobiography,even her maiden name, Pritchard.

Alborg also writes "The reader is left wondering what led to her divorce from her Catalan husband ... "

Not so. The author explains at length that she and her husband, who married quite young, simply grew apart in their interests and activities.

"we know little more than her oldest daughter's name and not even that of her other two daughters" Alborg says. Again, not so. The third daughter's naming is discussed at some length (it's Natalia) in a quite comical scene in the labor room, when the attending nurses urge Lucia to name her daughter Purificacion, in honor of that day in the Roman Catholic calendar.

Emy Louie also errs in referring to Lucia "Roman Catholic upbringings". Her parents were firmly agnostic, a major source of conflict during her girlhood time in a convent school, and of shaping her thought.

I've not read another book as lovely as this one in a long time! The estimable daughter of Robert Graves creates in beautiful prose an estimable voice of her own, while wearing warm and honorable traces of her father's literary genius; there's a common clarity, and distinction in the language. There's remarkable writing on every page; the ever so gradual reaching deep into the heart of Franco almost by not mentioning him, the destruction of her Spain from within, the passion of her love for her Catalan self, among her many selves- it's a thoroughly important book in every way. The first and last sections work like bookends and are epsecially right; Graves' subtle reflections on her relationship with her mother. This is English prose of the first order. Of course, one has a natural penchant to want to find wonderful amber things in her writing, given one's regard for the work of her father; the interesting thing is that her own voice presents itself right off, so much so that one ends praising even more the virtue of the inheritance, rather than getting lost in the echos. Her reflections on the work of a translator are beautifully woven throughout the book, and reveal a meticulous care for the possibilities of language. The ways in which she chooses to speak of her father in this memoir are memorable; at the oddest, least unexpected moment the narrative will turn and there is Robert Graves, father. This really is an irrepleaceable work of art. I commend it to everyone to read, there is something for every reader in these slender pages, and that surely expresses the consummate perfection of its parts.