Read This.
Why is the measure of love loss?
This, the first line from Written on the Body, is the only first line from a book that has stuck with me from the first moment I read it. This is the book that launched my obsession with Jeanette Winterson. A lot of people will tell you Oranges is where it’s at—don’t get me wrong, it’s a great book—but for my money, Written on the Body is where Winterson really hit her stride.
Written on the Body is more thematic and poetic than your average novel. Concepts and imagery drive the narrative; and the result is a sort of abstract work that is haunting, beautiful and surprisingly complete. What I mean is, the characters and story don’t suffer for the poetics, they don’t feel artificial or gimmicky, a feat not easily achieved.
The overarching story is essentially an autopsy of a relationship. The narrator is grieving the loss while examining every inch of what was. The details are visceral. Winterson manages to engage all the senses, giving the reader a uniquely graphic perspective on love and relationships.
Within that larger concept, Winterson’s narrator revisits other past relationships. Similar to High Fidelity, the examination of these relationships informs the narrator, indirectly fleshing out our unnamed guide. Also similar to High Fidelity, these glimpses into the past serve as comic relief in an otherwise solemn story.
Perhaps my favorite detail of Written on the Body, the gender of the narrator is never revealed.
Now, I wasn’t sure if I should even tell you that, just so you could realize (or not realize) it for yourself. Most people don’t even notice. Another credit to how well done this book is. Conventions like this could so easily slip into the cheesy gimmick realm but Winterson, following in the subtle footsteps of Borges, pulls it off like a seamless slight of hand and leaves it there, just off-center, like a gift for the reader. Unlike the annoying, trite and/or totally ridiculous M. Night Shammalammadingdong twists in this world, THIS revelation is an awe inspiring one. It makes you comb through again in search of slip-ups or clues (having written my alma mater’s equivalent of a thesis on the body of Winterson’s work, I assure there’s none).
Another reason I wrestled with pointing this out is, it’s interesting to see the assumptions people make based on how they identify with the narrator. Straight men I’ve known assume, and will argue vehemently that the narrator is a man. And it’s a valid argument—based on the stories, the exes, the attitude, the narrator could be male. The major flaw with that argument, for me, is an issue of realistic dynamics: Our narrator begins an affair with a married woman whose husband suspects nothing when, if the narrator where male, he probably would. It also doesn’t help the “straight dude” case that our author is a gay woman with a penchant for writing about gay women. That’s not to say straight dudes are totally absent from her work, they’re there. It’s just, her protagonists are generally, well, based on her. Sorry dudes.
But on the upside, this debate over the narrator’s gender only goes to show exactly how much all humans have in common when it comes to love, loss and heartbreak. It’s a stunning example of how a person—any person—feels in the presence and absence of the woman they love.
