A few months ago when Knausgaard fever was sweeping these States, I saw some people promulgating the argument that if a woman had done what Knausgaard did, no one would have cared. Or even worse, she would be derided as self-indulgent and banal.
To my ears that argument has always had a bullshitty ring to it for various reasons, and, well, now I think we have the closest thing possible to proof that it’s wrong. The Italian author Elena Ferrante (a pseudonym) is beginning to catch on big time in the States (see her in The New Yorker, Entertainment Weekly, Vogue, etc). And the work of hers that it becoming a sensation is a three-volume (and counting) study of “the lifelong friendship between two women.”
So, basically, an extremely long, in-depth, autobiographical series of books by a woman about “women’s” things, in translation. Sounds just about as close to a counterfactual as we would get in this debate.