What I see is nothing – I want what it hides – that is not nothing.

Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea, 64

Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea is a novel of many dimensions. The fluent, poetic and dream-like style and language and the imagery and symbolism in the novel emphasise the victimisation and the emotional tumult of the protagonist.  Here are some of my reflections on the novel, relying on the most acknowledged feminist literary theories. If you would like to read the complete essay, please leave me a message and I’ll contact you.

Jean Rhys, born to a Welsh father and a white Creole mother, spent her childhood in the Caribbean islands and later moved to England. Her last novel, Wide Sargasso Sea, which she wrote in 1966, is the story of the madwoman in Charlotte Brontë’s novel Jane Eyre, Bertha Mason – or rather the story of Antoinette Cosway, the young Creole heiress from Jamaica, before she became Bertha Mason. Rhys was haunted by the character of the madwoman in Brontë’s novel, and so she decided to write her life (Wyndham 3-6). The novel has undeniable links with colonial context, since the protagonist is discarded by both the black Caribbean as well as the white English societies and thus forced to see herself as ‘the other’ in terms of race. However, Antoinette is a character ‘othered’ also in terms of her gender, and thus she is doubly marginalized. Wide Sargasso Sea can be seen as a strongly feminist text, for Jean Rhys tries to justify Antoinette’s behaviour and discover why she became the appalling, beastly madwoman she appears to be in Jane Eyre. Rhys tells the story of Antoinette – or Bertha – from a woman’s point of view, defending her against the prejudices of the male-centered world, where a woman who does not live according to the standards set for her is deemed mad.

In the spirit of the French feminists, Hélène Cixous in particular, Rhys’s language seems to derive from the unconscious, emotional and subjective – in Julia Kristeva’s terms, the ‘semiotic’ – feminine experience of the writer, and therefore it can be seen as an example of écriture feminine. However, in light of the Anglo-American feminist theory, represented by such critics as Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar, it can be argued that Rhys also converts the traditional stereotypes of women by making the reader sympathise with the emotional and sexual madwoman. In this manner, Rhys – like many feminist writers – break the female stereotypes by seemingly submitting to them but simultaneously converting them.

The novel is filled with dreams and metaphors, with haunting and inexplicable images. Considering the prophetic dreams and the intuitions of the protagonist, as well as the allusions to voodoo magic and spirituality, it is evident that the novel goes far beyond the surface of reality. The unconscious is very clearly present in the novel, for Antoinette’s intuition and the strong feeling of destiny, of the inevitability of life, seem to control her. The marriage of Antoinette and Mr Rochester is doomed from the beginning, even though neither of them can consciously admit it. In the terms of the French feminist Julia Kristeva, the ‘semiotic’ aspect – the anarchic, the irrational, the unconscious stream of language that derives from the female body – controls the novel, letting the female unconscious run free (Selden 142). Even the part of the story that is told through Rochester’s eyes cannot sustain its rationality, but the mystical ‘semiotic’ stream eventually takes over, making the novel a strong example of écriture feminine.

Hélène Cixous emphasises that by this act of creating their own transcendent and poetic language that derives from the unconscious and irrational rather than from the formal and rational conscious that controls men’s writing, women will break away from the patriarchal tradition. The poetic language of Wide Sargasso Sea indeed reflects the emotions of the protagonist, and the sexuality – even the violent side of it – depicted in the novel was very daring and groundbreaking for a woman writer in the 1960s. Furthermore, Rhys presents the idea of a woman as an imprisoned victim oppressed by the standards and ideals prevailing in the patriarchal, phallogocentric society dominated by the male form of logos, language (Selden 139). Cixous writes in her essay “Utopias” that ‘woman must write woman’ (Cixous 247), encounter and embrace her gender and sexuality without being afraid or ashamed of it. In Wide Sargasso Sea, Antoinette tries to repress her feelings and gives in to the silence. After a futile attempt to explain her past, she says to her husband: ‘I wish to stay here in the dark… where I belong’ (Rhys 105). Antoinette does not dare to leave the ‘Dark Continent’, using Cixous’s term, by which she can only mean the female sexuality and the feminine side that has been repressed. Cixous states that the continent is ‘still unexplored only because we’ve been made to believe that it was too dark to be explorable’ (255).

Cixous says of the silenced women: ‘Muffled throughout their history, they have lived in dreams, in bodies (though muted), in silences, in aphonic revolts’ (Cixous 256). Wide Sargasso Sea is filled with dreams, silence and shadows and emotional, colourful language that bursts through the rational male voice. Antoinette begins her story with the voice of a shy young girl, frightened of the world and frightened of rejection, and her voice is then replaced and repressed by Rochester’s voice. He tells the middle part of the story from the male point of view, but his voice is shaken and towards the end it becomes more and more like Antoinette’s, unreal and confused, poetic and dreamlike. At certain points Antoinette’s voice bursts through and disrupts Rochester’s narration. He loses control of his narration, and Antoinette’s thoughts and words invade his mind and his speech (Mezei 10). In the very end, Antoinette – now turned into Bertha – regains her voice, though she has lost everything else – happiness, home and sanity.

Furthermore, Cixous sees femininity as something close to nature; écriture féminine is to her ‘a lively combination of flying colors, leaves, and rivers plunging into the sea we feed’ (Cixous 260). Wide Sargasso Sea certainly offers plenty of nature imagery, all of which is associated with Antoinette; she feels at home among the colourful nature of the island. She says:

The sky was dark blue through the dark green mango leaves, and I thought, ‘This is my place and this is where I belong and this is where I wish to stay’. (Rhys 82)

Rochester, on the other hand, feels threatened by the untamed and colourful nature of the island. He says: ‘I had reached the forest and you cannot mistake the forest. It is hostile’ (Rhys 78), and he feels ‘lost and afraid among these enemy trees’ (Rhys 79). At several points he makes known his unease and the feeling that he does not belong there, among the forests and rivers and purple skies, but among the people in the ‘rational’ cities of England. To him the island seems like a dream, mysterious and secretive. Antoinette is a part of nature, which seems to corroborate Cixous’s theory of the woman as ‘the Dark Continent’ – dark and unexplored and thus threatening – and of the feminine consciousness as in touch and as one with nature. Even the name of the novel, Wide Sargasso Sea, alludes to the ever-changing, deep and secretive part of nature – the sea that separates Antoinette’s home island and England. Cixous writes: ‘we are ourselves sea, sand, coral, seaweed, beaches, tides, swimmers, children, waves… More or less wavily sea, earth, sky’ (Cixous 260), and Antoinette indeed seems to be the sea – never belonging anywhere, but floating in between. When they come to England, she believes that they got lost at sea and arrived somewhere else. She says: ‘When I woke it was a different sea. Colder’ (144). She has left behind her beautiful home island as well as the Sargasso Sea, with its purple or green sunsets, and she feels lost.

The line between dream and reality is a thin one in this novel. Antoinette does not believe that anything but the beauty of the island is real: ‘How can rivers and mountains and the sea be unreal?’ (Rhys 58). To her, England seems like a dream: ‘Yes a big city must be like a dream’ (Rhys 58), and when she is finally taken there, it still seems unreal: ‘It is, as I always knew, made of cardboard’ (Rhys 144). Also Rochester, to whom the beauty and mystery of the island of Jamaica seemed untrue, is mesmerised by the nature: ‘Only the magic and the dream are true – all the rest’s a lie’ (Rhys 133). Rochester comes to his senses – the hate clears his head and leaves him ‘sane’ (Rhys 136) – but he still acknowledges that Antoinette is a part of the island, and that is why he fears and hates her: ‘she belonged to the magic and the loveliness’ (Rhys 136). Dreams are the place where Antoinette lives. Women and nature are both connected to the mystery of life – ‘the secret’ that both frightens and intrigues men, like Rochester, who thinks: ‘What I see is nothing – I want what it hides – that is not nothing’ (Rhys 64).

Sexuality plays an important role in the novel, as in all of Rhys’s work. Her writing represents the period in feminism when ‘a new type of frankness about sexuality’ begins to show in women’s literature (Selden 136). The gynocritic Elaine Showalter states that in Victorian times, ‘[s]exual appetite was considered one of the chief symptoms of moral insanity in women’, and therefore she concludes that Bertha Mason was seen as suffering from ‘moral madness’ (Olaussen 60). This was mostly due to men’s desire to control and repress women’s sexuality. In Wide Sargasso Sea, Rochester is clearly afraid of Antoinette’s sexuality, and her beauty both attracts and repels him, because it is not the kind of beauty he is used to. In the beginning, when they are riding together, he says: ‘Looking up smiling, she might have been any pretty English girl’ (Rhys 50). This obviously pleases him, because he would prefer a ‘normal’ girl, feminine in a conservative way. When Antoinette becomes mad and Rochester sees her for the first time, he ‘was too shocked to speak. He hair hung uncombed and dull into her eyes which were inflamed and staring, her face was very flushed and looked swollen’ (Rhys 114). Antoinette has become the opposite of the pretty and normal English girl she could have been.

Cixous claims that men need to be afraid of women because it arouses them, and therefore they associate ‘death and the feminine sex’ as ‘two unpresentable things’ (Cixous 255). Indeed, Rochester needs to hate Antoinette to gain his own sanity. It could be argued that men need to associate women with death in order to control them – they need to ‘kill’ them emotionally to suppress them, and that is what Rochester does to Antoinette:

‘Die then! Die!’ I watched her die many times. In my way, not in hers. In sunlight, in shadow, by moonlight, by candlelight. In the long afternoons when the house was empty. Only the sun was there to keep us company. We shut him out. And why not? Very soon she was as eager for what’s called loving as I was – more lost and drowned afterwards. (Rhys 68)

As the French feminists, Rhys resists the phallocentric ideal of female sexuality (Selden 139) by describing Antoinette’s sexuality in a shockingly direct and, at times, brutal manner. Angier points out Rhys’s idea about men and love: ‘men rob love with sex’ (Angier 543). For men, sex equals love, and when Antoinette offers herself to Rochester, he can only respond with sexual desire, which turns into hate. And for that reason, emotionally he is ‘a Stone’. Antoinette is more passionate in every way, until Rochester kills her emotionally and she becomes, as in voodoo or obeah, a living dead.

Gilbert and Gubar perceive both stereotypes, the angel and the monster, as negative, distorted images that should be killed. Whereas Cixous sees the Medusa-like, strong and feminine character as nothing to be feared, Gilbert and Gubar see the ‘monster in the house’ – or in the attic – as a horrid creature ‘whose Medusa-face also kills female creativity’ (Gilbert and Gubar 17). Cixous, on the other hand, states that ‘[y]ou only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she’s not deadly. She’s beautiful and she’s laughing’ (Cixous 255). In light of Cixous’s theory, one could argue that Antoinette’s madness is a rebellion against the patriarchal repression and the male form of writing – and, before her suicide, she destroys the prison that has held her captive by burning down the house; an old, dignified English mansion representing the patriarchal tradition. In light of Gilbert’s and Gubar’s theory, on the other hand, the transformation can be seen as negative, as a sign of men’s victory over women rather than as a sign of female liberation.

As opposed to Cixous’s theory, where the female body is the instrument for language and life, it could be argued that in Wide Sargasso Sea, Antoinette’s struggle happens on the inside, and her body is only a shell, a disguise. Gilbert’s and Gubar’s theory seems to abide here: the face of a victim is only a mask. A woman can surrender her body to the man, and Antoinette can be seen as a captive of her body. Antoinette becomes a marionette, without a will of her own. Christophine says to Rochester:

‘She tell me in the middle of all this you start calling her names. Marionette. Some word so.’

“Yes, I remember, I did.’

(Marionette, Antoinette, Marionetta, Antoinetta) (Rhys 121)

Rochester renames her – he controls her body now, but not her spirit. Antoinette is only a puppet, a doll: ‘The doll had a doll’s voice, a breathless but curiously indifferent voice’ (Rhys 135). This indicates also that men reduce women to objects in order to control them, but inside the doll, underneath the disguise, there is still the woman who would rather give up her body than her spirit. Indeed, Rhys subverts the female roles by turning the ‘monster’ – the ‘madwoman’ – into a sympathetic character. Though Antoinette seems to perceive her fate as inevitable, gives in and dies emotionally, she never becomes Bertha – at least not the perfect ‘angel’ that Rochester wants her to be. She says: ‘Bertha is not my name. You are trying to make me into someone else, calling me by another name’ (Rhys 115). Renaming her is one way in which Rochester exerts his masculine power over his wife, but Antoinette only seems to submit to it. Her struggle is on the inside, and instead of becoming ‘the pretty English girl’ Rochester wishes her to be, she becomes someone else entirely – someone much like her mother was, the madwoman who is not simply a victim but not really a monster either. Sexual and emotional oppression seem to be the key ideas in the novel, for Antoinette lets herself be victimised by the enemy, the man she was tricked into marrying. In the end, however, after Rochester has drained her of all emotion, she manages to break free from the suffering by making her last act of self-determination. With this last step, Rhys turns her ‘madwoman’ into a symbol of female liberation.


Angier, Carole. Jean Rhys: Life and Work. London: André Deutsch Ltd, 1990. 525-567.

Brontë, Charlotte. Jane Eyre. London: Penguin Books Ltd, 1996.

Cixous, Hélène. “Utopias”. In The New French Feminisms: An Anthology. Ed. by Elaine Marks and Isabelle de Courtivron. New York: Schocken Books, 1981. 245-264.

Gilbert, Sandra and Gubar, Susan. The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth Century Literary Imagination. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988.

Mezei, Kathy. ‘And it Kept its Secret’: Narration, Memory and Madness in Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea. In Critique: Studies in Modern Fiction, Vol. XXVIII, No.4, Summer, 1987. 195-209. Literature Resource Center. <http://galenet.galegroup.com/servlet/&gt;

Olaussen, Maria. Three Types of Feminist Criticism and Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea. Åbo: The Institute of Women’s Studies at Åbo Akademi University, 1992.

Rhys, Jean. Wide Sargasso Sea. London: Penguin Books Ltd, 1966.

Selden, Raman and Widdowson, Peter and Brooker, Peter. A Reader’s Guide to Contemporary Literary Theory. Hertfordshire: Prentice Hall, 1997. 121-149.

Wyndham, Francis. “Introduction” to A Norton Critical Edition to the Wide Sargasso Sea. Ed. by Judith L. Raiskin. New York and London: W.W. Norton & Company, 1999.


Alias Atwood

March 10, 2009

“He was deciding whether to cut her throat or love her forever.

Right. Yes. The usual choices.”

-Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

My favourite writer is Canadian author Margaret Atwood. Like with so many things, it is difficult to pin down exactly why I adore her. I know that my literary training should make me a detached reader capable of objective criticism, but when it comes to Atwood, all I can do is gush. She is one of the writers I envy; one I can identify with and whose talent I wish I could equal. Her ingenuity both encourages me to try harder, and discourages me, because I know I’ll never be as good. All of her novels are psychologically intriguing, and I love the intricate design of each one of them. She renews herself every time; she doesn’t write the same novel over and over again, but develops a new idea, a new approach and a new style – often even a new genre – in all of them. The acclaimed Alias Grace is full of suspense and romance, The Handmaid’s Tale and Oryx and Crake are futuristic novels, Surfacing a growth story… Not even attempting to avoid clichés, I shall say that each of her novels is a unique journey. And the ending usually offers a surprise or two (some of them foreseeable, however).

Atwood’s novel in 2000, The Blind Assassin, won the Booker Prize, and not for nothing. In this novel, Atwood combines many elements of truth and fiction into an intricate web of stories. The main story is about two sisters, Laura and Iris Chase, living in the 1940s. Laura dies under suspicious circumstances, and we hear the story of their lives through Iris’s perspective – intertwined with excerpts from Laura’s novel, published posthumously. Their story is ruthless and desperate, full of human feelings, love and despair, jealousy, denial, fear of living, loving and forgetting. Happiness that never lasts for more than a moment. Right. Yes. The usual stuff.

Atwood’s poetry leaves you breathless. Some of it is delicate and fragile, so beautiful that I feel like I’m crushing her words just by reading them out loud. Some of it is haunting – full of inexplicable imagery, dark and morbid, strange and elusive, that somehow makes sense. Some of Atwood’s poems have saved me at times of despair, by reading my mind and putting my thoughts into words, yet making me realise something new at the same time. Sometimes it only takes a word or two to change perspective. Margaret Atwood knows this well. Indeed, in her poem “The Double Voice” she describes the two voices that take “turns using [her] eyes”. These voices are the different perspectives that come through in most of her poetry; the voice or perspective that sees the poetic, romantic things in life, and the other that focuses on the morbid, the voice of painful realism that sees the rawness of life:

One saw through my

bleared and gradually

bleaching eyes, red leaves,

the rituals of seasons and rivers

The other found a dead dog

jubilant with maggots

half-buried among the sweet peas.

This is the contrast, the irony that I love in Atwood’s poetry; how easily she can shift between imagination and reality; between beauty and horror; between the poetic and the mundane. She succeeds in combining so many elements without losing credibility. She can express the most beautiful thoughts with such simplicity:

I would like to be the air

that inhabits you for a moment

only. I would like to be that unnoticed

& that necessary.

She writes of the earth, of animals as well as humans, what it is to be alive or dead; she writes of death. She relishes in violent imagery. She turns death into poetry, and vice versa:

It isn’t only

for food I hunt them

but for the hunt and because

they smell of death and the waxy

skins of the newborn,

flesh into earth into flesh.

Here is the handful

of shadow I have brought back to you:

this decay, this hope, this mouth-

ful of dirt, this poetry.

She is brutal and honest, and uses humour and irony in the same, seemingly direct manner, which makes me (even if not everyone) burst out laughing – and sometimes crying at the same time:

You held out your hand

I took your fingerprints

You asked for love

I gave you only descriptions

Please die I said

so I can write about it

Atwood’s voice is original and fresh. Her humour and the way she uses words to her own purposes make for breathtaking imagery, whereas her morbid images of death and violence shock you to the core. Her poetry changes your perspective, and – simply – it makes you feel. What more could one ask for?

What Is A Writer?

January 8, 2009

“Happiness is a garden walled with glass: there’s no way in or out. In Paradise there are no stories, because there are no journeys.”

-Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

Let me introduce myself: I’m a writer. That’s quite a statement, considering that I’ve never published any of my creative writings. But that doesn’t change the fact of it – I’m a writer, and always have been. I didn’t always know it; I imagined myself in many different professions when I was young. I wanted to be a teacher, a painter, a graphic artist, an architect, a biologist who studies chimpanzees, an environmental chemist… I still dream of some of those things. But the truth is that writing is the only activity that I can’t live without. That only became clear to me in my twenties, even though I had written several attempts at books even before that, ever since – well, ever since I could write, which was when I was about five years old. One of my first attempts was a book about a gang of girls who build and live in huts by a river, and have marvellous adventures. This was based on true events, as me and a group of girls living in the neighbouring houses in my alley indeed decided to build huts by a river one summer. Except that they weren’t huts but more like shelters, and it wasn’t a river, so much as a small brook. The adventures weren’t all that marvellous either, but we had fun. And I still have the book, with pictures and everything.

Being a writer doesn’t seem like anything much these days. Everyone is a writer; we all write blogs, articles, essays, presentations, and it seems that new books appear on the shelves in bookstores like mushrooms. People probably write books more often than pick mushrooms these days.  Sometimes I wish that I had been born a few hundred years ago, and been one of those first women writers with a message. You know, against male-dominated society and all that. Or perhaps one of the early feminists of the 20th Century, or even the later French feminist writers, opposing phallogocentrism (what a wonderful word) and advocating the feminine jouissance, writing “through the body” and shocking audiences with imagery of female sexuality and freedom…  Just a hundred years ago, I would have been in a special position, a repressed minority; now, I’m a privileged individual with the right to speak my mind and write whatever I like. But is there a point in writing, when I know I can? Where is the challenge? To be Emily or Charlotte Brontë, or Emily Dickinson, or Kate Chopin… This is all just romantic idealisation, of course; they didn’t even have showers back then. And I would have missed all of Dawson’s Creek.

I still think writing is challenging. Even if you can’t say anything really truly new, you can always tell the story from your own perspective. Perspective is everything. I do believe that there is always an underlying scientific reason for everything, the so-called “truth”, but no human can ever figure it out. No matter how hard you look, you’ll never know why things happen the way they do. You can only speculate. Native American storytellers say that the truth is to be found somewhere “between the differing versions” of the stories. The same events can be told by different people many times, from many perspectives, but the story will never be the same.

What is a writer, anyway? Not to get too philosophical, but we are all writers, of course. Everyone has at least one story to tell, and that sort of thing. To be honest, I’m not sure I have any more than one worth telling. Perhaps the only difference is that there are those willign to tell them, and those who are not. Well, we shouldn’r ignore the difference in the telling – those who know how to tell the story, and those who don’t. Above all, I love words. All of them, in all languages. I love writers who can make sentences sound mesmerising and melodic, who can touch you with the way they use words, even if they have nothing new to say. Even better, of course, if they do have something to say. Of course words should serve some purpose; how is not enough, there should also be a story to begin with. It doesn’t have to be a new one, but one worth telling. Stories can be redundant as well; I’m not a fan of book series, especially if all the elements remain the same. Telling the same story over and over again in the same manner or dragging it on seems pointless.

To finish with, perhaps I should say a word or two about my favourite writers. There are many classics that I adore – such as Edith Wharton, Virginia Woolf, George Orwell, Herman Melville, the Brontës, and of course Jane Austen – but I prefer contemporary literature. For the past five years of my graduate and post-graduate degree, I have studied post-colonial or diaspora writing, and become somewhat familiar with such minority writers as Jamaica Kincaid, Chinua Achebe, Maxine Hong Kingston, Hanif Kureishi, Jean Rhys, Kiran Desai, Zadie Smith… and many Native American authors, which is my field of specialty. Of the Native American authors I’ve read, Louise Erdrich and Leslie Marmon Silko are my favourites. I am writing my doctoral thesis on the latter, for many reasons, but one of the major ones is that Silko is an incredible writer. Even though I wrote my master’s thesis on her first novel Ceremony, the novel that convinced me of her talent was her dark and violent vision of a dystopic America in her massive 1991 novel Almanac of the Dead. In this novel, Silko criticises modern-day capitalist and corrupted American society, the destroyers who turn human beings into consumables, and draws parallels between these capitalist pigs and the blood-thirsty Moctezuma and other sorcerers from the indigenous tribes in the Americas. The stories of many victims and destroyers are tied together through Native American spirituality and the power of storytelling, Mayan prophecies and Marxist revolutionaries. The novel is a dizzying compilation of stories telling us that the past must be reckoned with. One might wonder whether such a combination is not too much for one novel. Perhaps, but being convoluted and doing it well is a skill to be admired, if one asks me.