Between Dog and Wolf, by Elske Rahill

The “pornification” of the culture and its effect on women is at the centre of this debut novel

Elske Rahill: Photograph: Dave Meehan

Elske Rahill: Photograph: Dave Meehan

Sat, Feb 15, 2014, 01:00


Book Title:
Between Dog and Wolf

978 1 84351 411 4

Elske Rahill

Lilliput Press

Guideline Price:

Beyond Irish literature there are works by women that have contributed strongly to literature of the body, gender and sexuality: works by Lidia Yuknavitch, Eileen Myles, Kathy Acker and, especially, in last year’s Maidenhead , Tamara Faith Berger.

These writers employ and invert porn tropes, they confront the body, the voice of the “being fucked” woman, in prose that is precise, urgent and muscular. Between Dog and Wolf , the debut novel by Elske Rahill, joins this dialogue but does not quite keep pace with it.

On the surface, Between Dog and Wolf can be read as (by today’s standards) a mildly sordid tale of three students engaged in the polyatomic life of 21-year-olds. The loneliness of displacement, the burgeoning meaning and anxious passion attached to every passing cloud, the posturing and sexual messiness that comes of “sparse timetables” and meeting deadlines.

Interrogate it more closely and the soil is richer. Between Dog and Wolf attempts a detailed examination of gender and, more specifically, “gender performance”. This admirable sifting of critical-theory ideas into her first novel is refreshing.

The novel also seeks to expose the tricky dynamics between young women, another subject that certainly warrants fictional exploration, but if you create women who are little more than ciphers, the subtle exploration necessary to expose such dynamics becomes impossible.

Cassandra, a part-time model and sizeable narcissist, previously in a relationship with an older artist, Brian, shares a kitchen in her student residence with Helen, a more financially privileged but emotionally fractured student. Helen spends much of the novel navigating memories of an abusive schoolteacher and the current sexual demands of Oisín, a Tipperary boy displaced to Dublin for college. He is a tepid public misogynist and a full-on private one. (He hates the sound of women piddling but finds choking them during sex a turn-on.) He’s an odd mixture: a flagrant douche nozzle, who comes off as emotionally bumbling, with a stunted sexuality and, frankly, not much to recommend him.

Still, he manages to spend much of the novel on his divan, conquering the rumps of women foolish enough to have him (and needing an ear test since, according to him, “hymens pop” in the process. Are they inflatable?) Not Cassandra: she nails him sexually on her own confused terms, which undermine her friend Helen, while Oisín hits bingo and further solidifies his douche-nozzlery.

It’s implied that both women wind up pregnant by Oisín. (Cassandra takes pills to miscarry.) Frustrated by pompous lecturers ranting about love and youth, neither woman attends to her education too rigorously – “I bore myself when I start like this,” Cassandra tells us at one point during a lecture when she actively confronts what the professor is positing – and both contort themselves to perform what they believe to be required of their gender.

Being “a hotty”
These days, or at least in this book, this includes silent piddling, being “a hotty”, worrying only about what your male will like, cock-sucking – along with deep throating where necessary to deflect your man’s bad moods – and allowing his “big, hot, hard, fat” you-know-what into spots where you might not actually want it.