Abstract
Somewhere between a short story collection and a novel, a book and a hypertext, a text and its intertext, The Melancholy of Anatomy by Shelley Jackson playfully displaces its boundaries and, so doing, questions the organicism of the diverse reading paths it makes (im-)possible. What is taking shape, from page to page and text to text, or what is being “embodied” in this writing that progressively claims its femininity back, is somehow akin to a little epistemological drama or crisis, which renders all source of possible knowledge problematic by patiently deconstructing any critical and hermeneutic attempt, while stressing the parasitic and artificial dimension of its commentary.
Published Version
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