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A review by djc16
The Surface Breaks by Louise O'Neill
4.0
Louise O’Neill has established herself as one of the finest and sharpest writers in Irish and international fiction since his debut Only Ever Yours and it is always interesting to see what project she chooses next. In a year where Almost Love marked Louise’s first ‘adult’ novel, The Surface Breaks sits in the YA bracket by my estimation at least, but as usual has a wide appeal.
Having seen Louise O’Neill in conversation at the CBI conference and DeptCon 4 recently in Dublin, the story of The Surface Breaks coming into being is an interesting and serendipitous one; Louise is a huge fan of the Disney adaptation of The Little Mermaid and in an unrelated move, the publisher asked if she would be interested in a retelling of the tale. In a way then, The Little Mermaid is an ideal fit for O’Neill and it is ripe for a retelling.
The Little Mermaid for me is also coloured by the Disney adaptation, full of humour and songs and targeted at a young audience. It is, however, the classic Hans Christian Andersen tale that this retelling is based on.
The darkness of the book surprised me for the reason that one is used to the flowery world of Disney, where everything will be alright in the end and nothing dwells in the mind for too long.
The Surface Breaks begins in a mirror of our society. Gaia, the eponymous mermaid of the original tale, lives under the sea with her sisters, her father the Sea King and her grandmother. Her mother’s memory is tarnished, seen as a disgrace to her people and also a tragic loss.
From this beginning we see that Gaia’s life is not all that different than a girl’s life on land would be. She states the rules of the sea kingdom as just that, rules, and she knows no different.
‘I have never been allowed to talk much.’
She is told by her grandmother,
‘It does not do a woman any good to ask too many questions.’
Gaia can only deal in small internal victories then in her day-to-day monotonous life, using them as a coping mechanism in this kingdom, where the king demands his daughters be seen to be beautiful and not heard or noticed in any other substantial way.
‘He will not stand for female insubordination.’
Her internal victories come in the form of things like knowing her true name, Gaia, though she must go by Muirgean as the former was given to her by her mother. Gaia is seemingly destined for this life of subordination, already at 14 having to put up with the advances of her soon-to-be betrothed, Zale, an absolute creep of a merman. The men are everything down there under the sea.
‘We are not allowed to laugh at the mermen, no matter how high our birth.’
And all the while, Gaia dreams of the surface, where she imagines things must be different. This is where the narrative is so effective, knowing as we do that what Gaia experiences as a woman under the sea is not much different to the treatment of women above the surface.
The Sea King engages in classic patriarchal behaviours, playing the daughters off one another and referring to his enemy Ceto as the Sea Witch. Gaia later finds that Ceto has been given this name as ‘a term that men give women who are not afraid of them, women who refuse to do as they are told.’
This is a clear parallel to our world, where women are routinely discredited by labelling them as ‘crazy’ or ‘a bitch’ or a ‘feminazi’ because they don’t bend to a man’s every whim or disagree in some way with their opinions.
Gaia is given a glimmer of hope when she manages to make her way to land, where she falls in love with the mortal Oliver.
The story from there should not be spoiled at this point, though it is worth echoing the buzz around the ending to the narrative. Depending on your reading of the story, it’s either a realistic or a hopeful ending, a primal rallying call that speaks to us all. Either way, it’s effective in driving home a powerful story, born from an ancient tale, but one that is more relevant now than ever.
Having seen Louise O’Neill in conversation at the CBI conference and DeptCon 4 recently in Dublin, the story of The Surface Breaks coming into being is an interesting and serendipitous one; Louise is a huge fan of the Disney adaptation of The Little Mermaid and in an unrelated move, the publisher asked if she would be interested in a retelling of the tale. In a way then, The Little Mermaid is an ideal fit for O’Neill and it is ripe for a retelling.
The Little Mermaid for me is also coloured by the Disney adaptation, full of humour and songs and targeted at a young audience. It is, however, the classic Hans Christian Andersen tale that this retelling is based on.
The darkness of the book surprised me for the reason that one is used to the flowery world of Disney, where everything will be alright in the end and nothing dwells in the mind for too long.
The Surface Breaks begins in a mirror of our society. Gaia, the eponymous mermaid of the original tale, lives under the sea with her sisters, her father the Sea King and her grandmother. Her mother’s memory is tarnished, seen as a disgrace to her people and also a tragic loss.
From this beginning we see that Gaia’s life is not all that different than a girl’s life on land would be. She states the rules of the sea kingdom as just that, rules, and she knows no different.
‘I have never been allowed to talk much.’
She is told by her grandmother,
‘It does not do a woman any good to ask too many questions.’
Gaia can only deal in small internal victories then in her day-to-day monotonous life, using them as a coping mechanism in this kingdom, where the king demands his daughters be seen to be beautiful and not heard or noticed in any other substantial way.
‘He will not stand for female insubordination.’
Her internal victories come in the form of things like knowing her true name, Gaia, though she must go by Muirgean as the former was given to her by her mother. Gaia is seemingly destined for this life of subordination, already at 14 having to put up with the advances of her soon-to-be betrothed, Zale, an absolute creep of a merman. The men are everything down there under the sea.
‘We are not allowed to laugh at the mermen, no matter how high our birth.’
And all the while, Gaia dreams of the surface, where she imagines things must be different. This is where the narrative is so effective, knowing as we do that what Gaia experiences as a woman under the sea is not much different to the treatment of women above the surface.
The Sea King engages in classic patriarchal behaviours, playing the daughters off one another and referring to his enemy Ceto as the Sea Witch. Gaia later finds that Ceto has been given this name as ‘a term that men give women who are not afraid of them, women who refuse to do as they are told.’
This is a clear parallel to our world, where women are routinely discredited by labelling them as ‘crazy’ or ‘a bitch’ or a ‘feminazi’ because they don’t bend to a man’s every whim or disagree in some way with their opinions.
Gaia is given a glimmer of hope when she manages to make her way to land, where she falls in love with the mortal Oliver.
The story from there should not be spoiled at this point, though it is worth echoing the buzz around the ending to the narrative. Depending on your reading of the story, it’s either a realistic or a hopeful ending, a primal rallying call that speaks to us all. Either way, it’s effective in driving home a powerful story, born from an ancient tale, but one that is more relevant now than ever.