Jeffrey Eugenides
Though I’d read this book before, there were a lot of surprises upon re-reading it (especially so soon), and a second reading of Eugenides confirms his talent as one of the most brilliant American writers working today. Where other authors may struggle to knit together disparate narratives, Eugenides shines and creates an interwoven subtext. There are many techniques deployed in this book that, theoretically, should sink it. Instead, each potential pitfall adds to the sense of epic as the book transcends time and is, in many ways, a fine example of The Great American Novel.
Take Cal, the narrator, for example. Cal is intersex, meaning that he possesses both male and female genetalia. Instead of saving this surprise for the corresponding moment in Cal’s own history, Eugenides explains the novel’s secret right off the bat. No plot point is spoiled, however, and the narrative sails along easily, always sure where its headed but with surprises throughout. It is a mystery to me how Middlesex is filled with such intrigue page in and page out: Cal very pointedly narrates from the present, but it continually remains interesting how he got there. Cal’s self-consciousness also illuminates rather than degrades the text. His pointed observations about his own past (including commenting on the likelihood of his birth as his parents delay their lovemaking) are hilarious and inject the text with verve necessary to such a sprawling work. Cal keeps the novel’s scope under control while continually expanding it to include approximately 80 years of direct narration (with gaps, of course).
Additionally, Eugenides uses Cal’s differences appropriately. While the book obviously deals with gender problems and the ultimate debate about the relative influence of genetic and societal determinism, Cal’s unique perspective is used to subtly undermine other themes that permeate the text. The racical history of Detroit and the Stephanides family’s own struggles to become white are interesting parallels to Cal’s shifting between and embodiment of both genders. The comparison is never forced but provides interesting intellectual fodder. That is the fundamental power of Middlesex: it at once hits its readers over the head while challenging them to probe more deeply, promising results without becoming pretentious. Cal is likable and surprisingly easy to relate to (full disclosure: I was once a teenage girl and I’m somewhat familiar with the Detroit area since college).
The story itself is gripping and embodies the American experience without trying too hard, which is shocking considering the almost extraneous insertion of the great immigration story of Cal’s grandparents. The book’s chronology begins not in Detroit but in modern-day Turkey, a faraway world at once achingly familiar and strikingly foreign to Cal, but it sets up its characters so fully and so convincingly that, for a while, it doesn’t matter that their history may have been tangential to Cal’s in a more conventional novel. The sense of urgency with which Cal traces his family history is imparted also onto the reader, who happily recreates the bustling Detroit of the automobile’s heyday and postwar suburbia. Eugenides moves between settings and characters with alarming ease and includes enough rich detail to make each stage of Cal’s genetic history inevitable within the novel’s framework and thematically relevant to Cal’s own struggle for identity.
Eugenides employs stock characters (the worrying foreign grandmother, the cantankerous ex-Navy man) and injects them with life and, of course, history so that they transcend their stereotypes and become those real people upon whom stock characters are based. There are no flat characters and no real stretches of the imagination- even Jimmy Zizmo’s remarkable transition seems appropriate to his consistently slick modes of operation. Likewise, the book is at once preachy and endearing, its platitudes fitting in within their context and gaining power from their placement.
It’s impossible to hate this book for its ambitions, which are great and somewhat pompous. Quite simply, Middlesex succeeds. It imparts its lessons by giving them while explaining them clearly in context. This is due in no small part to Cal’s outstanding narration: his ability to reflect on his own experiences makes the novel come alive and, by book’s end, it seems highly likely that there is a Calliope Stephanides inhabiting the world somewhere at this very moment. Cal is real and his story gains traction because he presents it so self-consciously and is so involved at every step of the way. The story is engrossing precisely because it is framed. From Lefty and Desdemona’s dubious choices in the mountains of Turkey to Cal’s budding romance with Julie Kukuchi, Middlesex holds back nothing and takes absolutely no prisoners. This is a real history of Detroit and a gritty look at the ways in which we define life. Oh, yeah. It’s narrated by an intersex character, certainly not an afterthought but a fact that informs the novel without overwhelming it. Eugenides is simply superb.
Grade: A
Take Cal, the narrator, for example. Cal is intersex, meaning that he possesses both male and female genetalia. Instead of saving this surprise for the corresponding moment in Cal’s own history, Eugenides explains the novel’s secret right off the bat. No plot point is spoiled, however, and the narrative sails along easily, always sure where its headed but with surprises throughout. It is a mystery to me how Middlesex is filled with such intrigue page in and page out: Cal very pointedly narrates from the present, but it continually remains interesting how he got there. Cal’s self-consciousness also illuminates rather than degrades the text. His pointed observations about his own past (including commenting on the likelihood of his birth as his parents delay their lovemaking) are hilarious and inject the text with verve necessary to such a sprawling work. Cal keeps the novel’s scope under control while continually expanding it to include approximately 80 years of direct narration (with gaps, of course).
Additionally, Eugenides uses Cal’s differences appropriately. While the book obviously deals with gender problems and the ultimate debate about the relative influence of genetic and societal determinism, Cal’s unique perspective is used to subtly undermine other themes that permeate the text. The racical history of Detroit and the Stephanides family’s own struggles to become white are interesting parallels to Cal’s shifting between and embodiment of both genders. The comparison is never forced but provides interesting intellectual fodder. That is the fundamental power of Middlesex: it at once hits its readers over the head while challenging them to probe more deeply, promising results without becoming pretentious. Cal is likable and surprisingly easy to relate to (full disclosure: I was once a teenage girl and I’m somewhat familiar with the Detroit area since college).
The story itself is gripping and embodies the American experience without trying too hard, which is shocking considering the almost extraneous insertion of the great immigration story of Cal’s grandparents. The book’s chronology begins not in Detroit but in modern-day Turkey, a faraway world at once achingly familiar and strikingly foreign to Cal, but it sets up its characters so fully and so convincingly that, for a while, it doesn’t matter that their history may have been tangential to Cal’s in a more conventional novel. The sense of urgency with which Cal traces his family history is imparted also onto the reader, who happily recreates the bustling Detroit of the automobile’s heyday and postwar suburbia. Eugenides moves between settings and characters with alarming ease and includes enough rich detail to make each stage of Cal’s genetic history inevitable within the novel’s framework and thematically relevant to Cal’s own struggle for identity.
Eugenides employs stock characters (the worrying foreign grandmother, the cantankerous ex-Navy man) and injects them with life and, of course, history so that they transcend their stereotypes and become those real people upon whom stock characters are based. There are no flat characters and no real stretches of the imagination- even Jimmy Zizmo’s remarkable transition seems appropriate to his consistently slick modes of operation. Likewise, the book is at once preachy and endearing, its platitudes fitting in within their context and gaining power from their placement.
It’s impossible to hate this book for its ambitions, which are great and somewhat pompous. Quite simply, Middlesex succeeds. It imparts its lessons by giving them while explaining them clearly in context. This is due in no small part to Cal’s outstanding narration: his ability to reflect on his own experiences makes the novel come alive and, by book’s end, it seems highly likely that there is a Calliope Stephanides inhabiting the world somewhere at this very moment. Cal is real and his story gains traction because he presents it so self-consciously and is so involved at every step of the way. The story is engrossing precisely because it is framed. From Lefty and Desdemona’s dubious choices in the mountains of Turkey to Cal’s budding romance with Julie Kukuchi, Middlesex holds back nothing and takes absolutely no prisoners. This is a real history of Detroit and a gritty look at the ways in which we define life. Oh, yeah. It’s narrated by an intersex character, certainly not an afterthought but a fact that informs the novel without overwhelming it. Eugenides is simply superb.
Grade: A
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