Author: colorsandshapes

In Cereus Blooms at Night, botanical imagery often works as metaphors for the characters’ inner lives (especially Mala’s). The most obvious example is the cereus flower. Tyler tells us early in the novel that “the cereus only blooms at night.” That detail is more than just a fun botanical fact—it also reflects how certain forms of beauty, truth, or healing can only emerge “in the dark.” Mala, who is nearly silent throughout the novel, is herself like the cereus: slow to open, perhaps misunderstood. Her emotional blooming happens gradually and under specific conditions. Mala’s garden also plays a major role in her characterization. Tyler describes it as wild, tangled, and overgrown, which contrasts with the neat, controlled environments of the nurses’ home or other “respectable” spaces in the novel. The garden represents a resistance to order and control— it is a space where Mala can exist on her own terms. Tyler aptly calls it, “chaotic, yes, but pulsing with life,” which mirrors how the novel frames non-normative identities and experiences as complicated and vivacious. Yet another example of botanical imagery in the novel is the poisoned almond tree, which serves as a symbol for Mala’s abusive father. The tree is described as blooming beautifully, but it produces toxic almonds. “The tree was full of almond blossoms, but the nuts were bitter. Poisoned. Just like him” (118). This metaphor is direct but effective—it shows how danger can be hidden behind beauty, and how trauma can be rooted in places that are supposed to provide safety.

Throughout the novel, Mootoo ties plants to human bodies, particularly Mala’s. Mala’s presence is often described in earthy or floral terms, and Tyler’s care for her is described in the language of tending, watering, or watching something grow. This connection between the botanical and the human suggests that healing doesn’t come through words alone.

“I grew up to the words cripple, retard, monkey, defect, took all the staring into me and learned to shut it out.” 

The list of slurs, starkly presented without conjunctions, mimics the overwhelming accumulation of these words throughout Eli Clare’s life. Their placement in a single sentence (bam, bam, bam, bam, bam!) illustrates the relentlessness and inescapability of the labels. Clare writes he—“grew up to the words”—meaning these disparaging words have been a constant for the entirety of his development. The phrase “learned to shut it out” indicates survival but not resolution; language’s wounds remain even if they are silenced.

Clare complicates this depiction of linguistic violence by exploring how marginalized people navigate the tension between self-hatred and pride. He writes: “The body as home, but only if it is understood that language too lives under the skin… They mark the jagged edge between self-hatred and pride, the chasm between how the dominant culture views marginalized peoples and how we view ourselves, the razor between finding home, finding our bodies, and living in exile, living on the metaphoric mountain.” The metaphor of the razor demonstrates the power of words– they cut, wound, and represent the precarious boundary between acceptance and rejection. 

The mountain, a recurring symbol in Clare’s work, also functions as a metaphor for linguistic violence. When describing the decision to climb Mount Adams, Clare acknowledges: “Climbed surely because I wanted the summit, because of the love rumbling in my bones. But climbed also because I wanted to say, ‘Yes, I have CP, but see. See, watch me. I can climb mountains too.'” The repetition of see emphasizes the internalized pressure to prove oneself through unmistakable action, forced by the ableist gaze. The mountain becomes a linguistic construct as much as a physical one, representing the unattainable standard of overcoming disability. Clare’s eventual decision to turn back suggests a rejection of these imposed narratives, yet the mountain’s grip implies that the violence of language cannot be fully escaped. Words remain “written on the body,” if you will, forever shaping how we see ourselves.

Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body is saturated with longing. On page 135, the narrator calculates how long it would take the sound waves of their screams to reach Louise; of course, it would be futile. They simply cannot scream loud enough, it is impossible. This metaphor is so human– that urge to scream out in times of great loss, even if you will not be heard. The rest of page 135 speaks to the novel’s broader contemplation of belonging and estrangement. The following paragraph describes the zoo at night—animals crying out, “species separated from one another, knowing instinctively the map of belonging.” This ties into the novel’s queerness, where the narrator’s love for Louise defies rigid categorization. The “map of belonging” is dictated not by conventional social norms, but by love, or at least connection. Just as the animals in the zoo are unable to access their natural habitat, the narrator finds themselves cut off from the one place they belong: with Louise. “I keen in the fields to the moon. Animals will call back,” demonstrates the narrator’s desperation, their attempts to reach out even when no response will come. This passage builds on earlier moments in the novel where the narrator struggles with love as something ineffable. The passage’s closing image—the animals, ears pricked, listening for “the noises of kill” but only hearing human sounds—further deepens the novel’s sense of displacement. If Louise is the animal, she is one separated from her natural environment, removed from the one she loves (at least from the narrators POV). If the narrator is the animal, then they are imprisoned by their own yearning. In this way, this passage encapsulates the novel’s central paradox: love is both the most natural and the most unnatural thing, something instinctive yet impossible to hold onto. The page ends with, “I wish I could hear your voice again.” So gut-wrenching.