July is a month with a lovely event, hosted by Emma at Words and Peace: “Paris in July“, where we read books about all things pertaining to France and its capital. Now I have all manner of possibilities to choose from (so many French books!) and I thought I had two titles lined up and ready to go. However, for some reason they didn’t quite grab me recently, and I got distracted by mention somewhere online of Jean Cocteau (one of my favourite French authors). This sent me off rummaging in the stacks to find out what unread titles by him I had, and the further distraction of Jean Genet resulted in the huge pile of new possibles in my end of June post. However, I also stumbled across a book which has been lurking on the shelves seemingly forever – “Women of Iron and Velvet” by Margaret Crosland – and it became clear to me that its time had finally come!
Crosland was an author and translator who specialised in French writers; as well as translating a wide range of authors, from Zola and de Sade to Cocteau and Colette, she also wrote biographies of the latter two authors. But hidden in my library was this fascinating work, whose full title is “Women of Iron and Velvet, and the Books They Wrote in France”. First published in 1976, it’s a seminal study of French women writers which I obviously picked up at some point because of the image of Colette on the cover. However, the book’s range is wide, and over fifteen chapters, Crosland traces the history of women’s writing in France, starting with its earliest practitioners. Familiar names abound, such as George Sand and Mme de Stael; Colette and Simone de Beauvoir; and more recent writers such as Nathalie Sarraute and Marguerite Duras. However, there were many others who were completely new to me and I learned much from the book.
French women faced many issues over the years regarding autonomy and equality, and Crosland builds in historical facts about the country and the incredible restrictions placed upon women in a strongly Catholic society. They did not get the right to vote until 1944; and there was a law against women wearing trousers which was not repealed until 2013! The social expectations of such a religious country were many and Crosland’s no nonsense approach to the subject is welcome.
With the book being published in 1976, Crosland’s most recent subjects were the many new wave writers, and interestingly she had much to say about Albertine Sarrazin, an author who’s only recently come back into fashion with recent reissues of her work in translation. Other names have very much slipped out of sight (at least in translation, as far as I can tell) and so Crosland’s work provides a snapshot of how these writers were viewed at the time.
If poets, as Cocteau wrote, walk slightly above the ground, Renee Vivien was hardly conscious of the ground at all ; she floated, in her purple draperies, a mile or so too high, but it is worth watching her for a moment, the sound of her minor-key Baudelairian music ringing in your ears.
I have to say that one of the most fascinating aspects of reading this book is actually what it reveals about the time period in which it was written. Crosland is briskly and unabashedly feminist in her outlook; she takes no shit, basically, and has no truck with men and their shenanigans. I found myself wondering how the book would be written nowadays, and reflecting on how society and our viewpoints have changed. The 1970s were still very full of sexism and misogyny, with the second wave of feminism in full flow. This is reflected in Crosland’s narrative and I found it incredibly refreshing.
Putting that aside, however, it’s interesting to also ponder how our attitudes to the various writers have evolved over the decades. Some names she lauds were unknown to me; she seems to consider Francoise Sagan as slightly ephemeral, although I think her star is still a lot higher than those Crosland compares her to. Crosland also is really quite dismissive of Simone de Beauvoir, rating Simone Weil as of much more substance; I would argue that they’re very different writers, and that de Beauvoir is very highly regarded nowadays. None of these aspects bothered me, but they added an additional angle of interest, seeing how judgements change over time.
In the end, “Women…” was a thoroughly enjoyable read which as well as introducing me to many French authors new to me, also revealed much about life in France, and the period in which Crosland was writing. She’s drily witty throughout the book and as you can guess from the amount of post-its sticking out of my copy, I have a long list of books and writers I want to explore further! Every book has its time, and Paris In July 2026 was the perfect occasion to discover the writing of Margaret Crosland!
Kaggsy's Bookish Ramblings 
