My
first encounter with Rhys’s work was when I was a student and participated in a
literary course where we watched movies based on some of the books to be
discussed. This first visual comprehension of the story, which I must admit was
executed brilliantly, gave me a taste of the original. I eagerly read it and
though it picked my interest, it was completely overshadowed by my fascination with
Angela Carter that started at the same time (Even though Carter has a loudly outspoken
opinion on Rhys, I would not discuss her views here. She is not completely
uninfluenced by her predecessor – in Carter’s prose there are obvious relations
to Rhys’s interpretation of womanhood but I will leave that observation for
another time).
Now,
years later, I accidentally found a nice edition of the book and devoured it
for hours. Volumes are written on how the author wrote a prequel of Bronte’s
famous Jane Eyre, taking on the
obscure character of Bertha and providing her with a biography. I am not
interested in the mechanism of explaining, or filling the gaps that obviously
inspired the author. My curiosity is picked by the content of Rhys’s novel
beside the intertextual connections with the other text. It is worth mentioning
that the structure of the novel ‘borrows’ cinematographic ways in order to show
different points of view. This change in perspective not only emphasizes the
dramatic effect but it intensifies the differences of how the two main
characters comprehend the environment, which in my opinion is the third
relevant party in the conflict.
Antoinette
adores the lavishness of her homeland and understands the language the
environment speaks. She is as vulnerable as any young woman would be if she
experiences loss and is left without family and protection. When she marries
she is barely a woman. She intuitively fears this act of union because it ties
her to another being. The other always presents a terrifying perspective.
He,
on the other hand, is married with the full force of the passive voice. He seeks
her money and that is what drives him. He fears humiliation more than anything
and his Englishness, so deeply rooted in him, is the reason why the exotic
island causes him illness and discomfort. For his eyes everything is excess.
Including his wife’s sexuality (Ian McEwan, who is expected to come to Bulgaria
this autumn, threats the same problem very similarly in his novel On Chesil Beach). His fear of the
unknown results in sheer cruelty.
This
is not the first time when a scared man tries to transform his wild wife into a
marionette, a doll to toy with. First, he changes her name so it suits him
better, than he locks her up because he wants to ruin her beauty. Antoinette is
a secret for him, he cannot understand her. He cannot endure her independency. So
he locks her up.
Wide Sargasso Sea
is a brilliant book about love and hatred. I would recommend it to anyone. For me,
it should be included in literary syllabus no matter the country or state.
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