bite the apple & kiss the serpent

Unfortunately, we found ourselves confronted to the same rancid ideas in books authored by women. Too often, their characters oscillate between virginity and depravity, eternal victimhood and stupidity. Vapid and vain, or weeping and weak, or sweet and pure, all to better "defile" them later; their personality barely sketched in the sidelines, their existence hardly worth a mention, their life trivial, sacrificed. Thus appears a string of familiar figures: the dead idealised mother, the living but children-fixated mother, weak, crying; the shallow, beauty obsessed queens and girls, stupid and selfish to the core; the beloved sisters and relatives, abused and killed to distress the male half of their family; the missing female friends and aunts and grandmothers and passersby, the women whose very presence is omitted, repeatedly.

This listing may have triggered a few memories, especially to readers familiar with young adult literature, but let’s be specific: do you recall the few appearing girls derided by Lila Bard, in Schwab’s Shades of Magic series? The queen, always afraid and weeping, having no life outside of her fears and her son? Perhaps, if you persisted until the last volume, you also assisted, powerless, to the systematic abuse and slaughter of every other female character while men mourned?

Or maybe have you picked up Bardugo’s first fantasy series, The Grisha Trilogy, with its vain and unnamed Ravkan queen, its most beautiful woman punished with ugliness, its villain’s mother sacrificing herself for her son and disdaining her daughter? Or were you more interested in her later additions to her universe, Six of Crows, with its dead or mad mothers, its silly and grating young wife to a much older man, its manipulated girl-assassin finding no common grounds with her female rival, only death?

Have you opened Arden’s The Bear and the Nightingale and felt dismayed at the lack of care towards Vasya’s sister, sent away at a young age to marry and breed? At the upsetting and unending sexual suffering of a not that much older stepmother, turned bitter and cruel, demeaned despite her resemblance to the heroine, worthy of no compassion?

Perhaps you might have perused Valente’s Deathless where Baba Yaga is portrayed as a bitter old crone expressing sexual jealousy of Marya, espousing views such as a wife’s role is to be a “good mount for her husband”? Her enslavement of the previous Yelenas who were used up and cast aside as Koschei’s sexual playthings (and even more swiftly discarded by the narrative) with Marya giving only a fleeting thought to their plight?

Or Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell wherein a female perspective is conspicuously absent, existing only to be dutiful wives or hapless victims caught in a powerplay between magical men and maleficent fairies?

It would seem only a few chosen women and girls can be in the spotlight. These, usually, take the mantle of "heroines", though, as we noticed, female authors will still not allow them the same latitude as men. Stuck in a man-made world, they must submit to their gazes still, solely rely on them for friendship, love, knowledge and general plot advancement; with their every interaction tied to them, they, too, see their development denied in favour of the men’s. They must shrink themselves, give up on their ambitions, their ambiguity, accept a society designed entirely against them and feel grateful for the scraps of freedom graciously ceded to them. In that sense, they resemble very much the other girls they often strive to detach themselves from.

You may have noticed, in The Bear and the Nightingale, how Vasya, a young girl of fourteen, cannot escape the gaze of a lustful priest, the very narration also espousing his point of view, decentering her. Magic may allow her a way out of forced unions and pregnancies, yet still misogyny weights her down, isolating her from other girls and women, like her stepmother.

You may also have come across the various threats of rape Lila Bard must endure, her cross-dressing to prevent this, her loneliness and contempt for the members of her own sex. You may have noted her ambition and recklessness, only to see it crumble before a male character’s tragic backstory, while her very own desires and excessiveness were handwaved amidst a plot focusing on temptation.

Or you may have seen, in the pages of the manga Yukibana no Tora, a bold female warlord overcome her discomfort with men by ordering a friend to "take" her, turning herself into a passive recipient for men’s sexuality. Her life experience and thus, her differing point of view and confidence in herself is completely swept away. Even in a fictionalised account of her life, she must yield to men’s degrading view of her body.

In fact, despite the infinite possibilities offered by fantasy, many women still build cultures infused with conservatism. Traditional gender roles remain enforced in appearances: makeup, dresses, thinness and not a hint of masculinity, which would prove a stain, an assumed hatred against femininity and its unlucky subjects. Society, in such worlds, favours harmless and nurturing soon-to-be mothers, emotional and lesser girls whose value lies in the marriage they will be able to secure. Bloodlines, powers, knowledge and divinity itself all belong to men in an unquestioned misogynistic realm. Female characters must struggle against the chains of sexism before undergoing any other kind of development, if they benefit from such an arc at all. Rape, pregnancy and misery is their lot.

Take a look, then, at the rulers as well as the extras populating these worlds: men, in Schwab’s, as king, guards or nameless sailors, dressed as such, that is, without dresses; men as rulers again in Bardugo’s, as merchants, as mobsters, while women obsess over their appearances.

Samantha Shannon’s Priory of the Orange Tree presents a striking example of a world still conceived by men: in a country ruled by women for over a millennium, producing a blood-related heiress remains such a primordial task that even a queen becomes a broodmare. Forced into marriage, her character endures unwanted sexual unions until she finally assumes her goal as a woman – a mother, through and through. Reverse the roles, parse history: royal men annulled their marriages, kept mistresses, adopted heirs… and yet, and yet. Fictional women are kept on a tight leash. What a waste of creativity!

Disappointing and frustrating, yes. Even moreso as many reviewers – including women – will gloss over such issues, when they do not misconstruct a lone strong heroine as feminist-worthy, or qualify a superficially egalitarian world as "matriarchal". Yet what bothers us further is the way these authors receive a constantly harsher treatment than their male peers, their works immediately ridiculed and their intents disregarded, however flawed they could be. Despite their failings, men’s works are still deserving of an analysis, of some doubts and nebulous improvements; women’s should be denounced and go back to the garbage bin.

I had heard whispers of Yellowface prior to its publication but I admit after reading its premise and a few advanced reviews, it didn’t seem like anything I would be interested in. How it pleases me to be wrong in this instance! And to have taken a chance after having seen a few friends speak its praises. The premise to Yellowface is a simple one: set in a contemporary America, Juniper Hayward steals the manuscript of her deceased Asian female friend and passes it off as her own, and this callous act of self-serving ego rockets her to stardom.

Juniper Hayward is one of the best female protagonists I’ve read in quite a long time.

Before I continue, I want to make a few things clear: Juniper Hayward is no feminist icon. She is racist. She is egocentric, prideful, catty, self-interested. She is, in all respects, the villain of the story and the orchestrator of her own misery. And yet… and yet… she compelled me. She reflected an ugly side of being an artist I longed to see portrayed by a woman. While she is the furthest thing from an aspirational and awe-inspiring individual she was so startlingly human, so flawed, so hungry, that I couldn’t get enough of her. I devoured Yellowface in the span of two days and afterwards I was left utterly enthralled by Juniper and Athena both and their parasitic, competitive friendship. 

Deep down, I’ve always suspected Athena likes my company precisely because I can’t rival her. I understand her world, but I’m not a threat, and her achievements are so far out of my reach that she doesn’t feel bad squealing to my face about her wins. Don’t we all want a friend who won’t ever challenge our superiority, because they already know it’s a lost cause? Don’t we all need someone we can treat as a punching bag?

This is the sort of representation I was looking for! Women who are deeply driven by their own want and ambition, compelled to succeed until it takes them to unprecedented heights (or leads to an almighty fall). I truly commend Kuang for bringing these women to life, setting them in a book filled with equally dimensional and awful female side characters, with nary a prominent male presence to be found unless they serve the narrative. It was a genuine pleasure to read about Juniper and her desire to be recognised for her writing accomplishments, to create and leave something behind that was bigger than herself:

A musician needs to be heard; a writer needs to be read. I want to move people’s hearts. I want my books in stores all over the world. I couldn’t stand to be like Mom and Rory, living their little and self-contained lives, with no great projects or prospects to propel them from one chapter to the next. I want the world to wait with bated breath for what I will say next. I want my words to last forever. I want to be eternal, permanent; when I’m gone, I want to leave behind a mountain of pages that scream, Juniper Song was here, and she told us what was on her mind.

Juniper Hayward is a protagonist on par with Humbert Humbert. A loathsome figure full of pitiful self-excuses and delusional rationalisations for the wrongs they commit. You feel disgust with them, you feel for them, you yearn to understand them, but what you can never do is ignore them.

Plagiarism is an easy way out, the way you cheat when you can’t string words together on your own. But what I did was not easy. I did rewrite most of the book. Athena’s early drafts are chaotic, primordial, with half-finished sentences littered all over the place. Sometimes I couldn’t even tell where she was going with a paragraph, so I excised it completely. It’s not like I took a painting and passed it off as my own. I inherited a sketch, with colors added only in uneven patches, and finished it according to the style of the original. Imagine if Michelangelo left huge chunks of the Sistine Chapel unfinished. Imagine if Raphael had to step in and do the rest.

And what I love most is that, penned by an Asian woman like Kuang, there is no chance for Juniper to escape accountability for her vile misdeeds. The author holds her up in all her contemptible glory, with no veneer of justification to be found, and invites you to observe and cast your judgement. She tapped into the gnawing resentment that eats away at every writer in the publishing industry, each of us all clawing for the scraps of recognition those at the table see fit to toss our way until we all turn on each other. Why her? Why not me? Is it because I am not pretty enough? Not charismatic enough? Am I simply too blandly white and heterosexual? Am I simply too unpalatable for the masses? On and on it goes, the gears turning, powering the engine of jealousy until it churns out a monster like Juniper. 

The attacks on the publishing industry and how it commodifies and weaponises identity to serve capitalist interests were particularly salient and incisive from Kuang, I like how she tackled both sides of an argument, exposing both of their respective shortcomings, and left no one unscathed.

She’s done this in all her other novels. Her fans praise such tactics as brilliant and authentic—a diaspora writer’s necessary intervention against the whiteness of English. But it’s not good craft. It makes the prose frustrating and inaccessible. I am convinced it is all in service of making Athena, and her readers, feel smarter than they are.

But best of all, I loved how much the story was so singularly focused on Juniper’s ambitions. There was no looming romance in the background threatening to infringe on the narrative. Juniper never took the chance to lament her lack of a traditional lifestyle, if anything, she scorns it. 

I couldn’t stand to be like Mom and Rory, living their little and self-contained lives, with no great projects or prospects to propel them from one chapter to the next. I want the world to wait with bated breath for what I will say next.