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honeydewmoon 's review for:
The Virgin Suicides
by Jeffrey Eugenides
I oscillated on my rating for this novel quite a bit, mostly out of my changing ideas of what the author is trying to say. It is evident to me as a young woman that I cannot and should not have any sympathy for the collective that is narrating, but my conflict with them arises more for me in Eugenides’ depictions; in one breath they are heroes and collectors and in the other they are stuck so squarely in time in a moment where their obsessions prevent them from living their lives.
Regardless of Eugenides’ intentions, it’s clear that despite the “evidence” presented, our narrators are unreliable. The girls exist as a collective, an allegory for their own lives and loves, a blank canvas on which any member of the suburb could project. The male fantasy of being with the “perfect” woman colors so desperately the narrators’ perceptions of the girls that stains on sheets from sickness and neglect become “lemon” and “rose” colored, collarbones jutting out from a malnourished chest become holy curves of a mature body, and misplaced hypersexuality to cope with grief and abuse becomes “promiscuity” and “making love.” Lux is the only character with a personality in the Lisbon household with a personality because her weaponized sexuality is exactly what this collection of male onlookers want to see; a beautiful woman that fits their perspective of what a woman should use her looks for. Therese has one or two known interests that become the frame for every time we hear from her. Bonnie and Mary have no such luck.
Suicide does not have a point. It is not a metaphor. It is not a window to a broken home, nor is it the lantern blinking in the window for help. In this case, it is the accumulation of every person’s thoughtlessness and abuse at the cost of a human life. It is the key word here- human- that readers without a keen eye can miss in Eugenides’ narrators’ perceptions. By the end, it’s a little more clear, but the subtlety that surrounds this single-point perspective could easily get lost in the romantic prose of a small town stopped in a single moment.
Regardless of Eugenides’ intentions, it’s clear that despite the “evidence” presented, our narrators are unreliable. The girls exist as a collective, an allegory for their own lives and loves, a blank canvas on which any member of the suburb could project. The male fantasy of being with the “perfect” woman colors so desperately the narrators’ perceptions of the girls that stains on sheets from sickness and neglect become “lemon” and “rose” colored, collarbones jutting out from a malnourished chest become holy curves of a mature body, and misplaced hypersexuality to cope with grief and abuse becomes “promiscuity” and “making love.” Lux is the only character with a personality in the Lisbon household with a personality because her weaponized sexuality is exactly what this collection of male onlookers want to see; a beautiful woman that fits their perspective of what a woman should use her looks for. Therese has one or two known interests that become the frame for every time we hear from her. Bonnie and Mary have no such luck.
Suicide does not have a point. It is not a metaphor. It is not a window to a broken home, nor is it the lantern blinking in the window for help. In this case, it is the accumulation of every person’s thoughtlessness and abuse at the cost of a human life. It is the key word here- human- that readers without a keen eye can miss in Eugenides’ narrators’ perceptions. By the end, it’s a little more clear, but the subtlety that surrounds this single-point perspective could easily get lost in the romantic prose of a small town stopped in a single moment.