The Ambiguity of Wordplay

In Autobiography of Red, Anne Carson uses wordplay, specifically double meanings, to complicate her subject matter and provide varying expectations and interpretations to the reader. For example, in a poem describing a moment when Geryon’s wings are lashing out and he tries to hide himself away from the world, Carson titles the chapter “XV: Pair.” The title references both Geryon’s ‘pair of wings’ and the couple themselves: “They watched each other, / this odd pair” (53). Titles are a way to introduce the poem and establish what to expect. Carson’s intentional chapter title words/phrases often come with many connotations, suggesting many topics the poem could explore. When we see a one-worded title like “Pair,” often the immediate reaction is to fill in the phrase: is it a pair of socks? A pair of people? What type of pair? This strategy of getting the reader to anticipate something and then either follow through or denying those expectations is a brilliant strategy. 

Carson also uses words that have two definitions itself to present two different ways to interpret the text. For example, in the chapter title “XIX: From the Archaic to the Fast Self,” the word ‘archaic’ has two different definitions: it means ‘very old’ but it also is a word used to describe the period of Greek art and culture from the 7th to 6th century BCE. During this chapter, Geryon describes himself as “a man in transition” (60). This transition, one can assume from the title, is from his ‘old’ self to a newer, ‘fast self.’ Interestingly, the choice to use the word “archaic” calls back to Geryon’s mythological past and role in Greek art of that time period, of which a few pieces still survive today. This transition in his identity calls back to the old him, but whether that is referencing the Greek version of him or this modern one in Carson’s novel is up to the reader’s interpretation.  

The ambiguity of the titles also force the reader to consider the complexity of words and their meanings. As discussed in class, language and the meaning we assign to it is slippery, and sometimes the word itself isn’t enough to encompass what we mean. I think Carson does an interesting thing in her novel when she tries to capture how our language can mean a variety of things, and sometimes that vagueness is confusing. For Geryon, words have always been a struggle: “Geryon always / had this trouble: a word like each, / when he stared at it, would disassemble itself into separate letters and go. / A space for its meaning remained there but blank […] What does each mean?” (26). Yet again, Carson uses a word (each) with a double meaning to imply two interpretations of his question — what does the literal word “each” mean?, and what does each word mean in general? The text points towards the former being the ‘correct’ interpretation since he is discussing that specific word, but the point remains that there is an ambiguity here, an open space to interpret the words in another way. The lack of punctuation, specifically quotations around the word ‘each,’ creates a more open-ended sentence and text. Carson specially worded this phrase and chose this word to make room for those double meanings and leave the reader thinking. 

Self-Sacrifice as Protection

The protagonists in Written on the Body and Cereus Blooms at Night both create an extension of themself who they feel an obligation to protect, ultimately sacrificing their form to save “their child.” 

The narrator in Written on the Body views Louise as a part of themself, a person who is very similar and part of an intertwined and complementary set of bodies. They are two halves of the same whole, made of similar parts with very minimal differences: “Your body is twice. Once you once me. Can I be sure which is which?” (Winterson 99). They clearly see Louise as an extension of themself, or themself as an extension of Louise. Either way, the narrator views this relationship as dependent, with one unable to exist fully without the other. The narrator also sees Louise as their creation, calling her “My child. My baby” (Winterson 159). The narrator feels a parental obligation to Louise, to protect her from the world and take care of her. This parental lens taken by the narrator in viewing their relationship forces the narrator to take a position of authority, one where they feel entitled to making decisions on behalf of Louise, as a parent would their child. Therefore, the narrator makes the decision to leave Louise to ‘save her from her cancer,’ because “Our love was not meant to cost you your life. I can’t bear that. If it could be my life I would gladly give it” (Winterson 105). The narrator takes on the role of the savior, sacrificing themself and this love to allow Louise to get care from Elgin. They emphasize that they would rather die than her, but because they cannot take her cancer away from her body, they do the next best thing — they cut themself out like a tumor, theoretically saving Louise. For the rest of the novel, the protagonist floats through life incomplete, unable to have what they truly want. For a majority of the novel the protagonist sees this action as a justifiable and courageous sacrifice they make for Louise to be free, to survive.

Similarly, Mala creates Pohpoh as an extension of her childhood self to separate that trauma and period of her life from her current woes. Mala views herself as Pohpoh’s mother, and intends to be “the mother of Pohpoh or at least her older sister” who would have “hugged her and protected her as well as PohPoh had protected Asha” (Mootoo 173). Mala, the grown up Pohpoh, separates a part of her identity, that childhood youthfulness, from the whole so she has someone to take care of after Asha leaves. The maternal role Mala/Pohpoh has filled since her real mother abandoned her is deeply ingrained in her identity, and so when one ‘child,’ Asha, leaves, Mala must create another child to protect. This child just happens to be an extension of herself, a figment of her imagination that represents her childhood and innocence that needs to be shielded from the violence of the father. Mala also takes on the role of ‘mother’ for the entire family, acting as a mother for Asha or Pohpoh, a wife for Chandin, and the one who runs the household. 

Just as the protagonist does, Mala ‘sacrifices’ herself to save Pohpoh from violence. In addition to taking the brunt of her father’s sexual abuse, when the police investigate her house and find Chandin’s body, Mala places herself as a barrier between them and Pohpoh: “‘They coming after you, run, run!’ Mala shouted to the child who, in her imagination, had already escaped the yard’s confines. […] ‘Yes, Pohpoh, you take off and fly, child, fly!’” (Mootoo 186). Mala is tackled by the police, but this self-sacrifice allows Pohpoh, or her childhood, to remain free and escape from reality. This metaphorical sacrifice of the narrator and Mala ‘saves’ the child they care for in an ultimate act of parental love. Just as the protagonist views Louise as “the tender thing I wanted to protect,” Mala says her “first duty was to save and care for Pohpoh” (Winterson 159, Mootoo 172). Both characters view their relationship with this extension or creation of theirs through a parental lens, making their primary purpose to protect and care for that person, like a child.

By framing both of these protagonists as parents who shield and defend aspects of themself, both authors comment on this phenomenon of hiding away aspects of one’s identity to protect it from the harsh world. This component is usually manifested or thought of as a child, because they represent innocence and purity and must be protected from trauma. By separating this part of self and manifesting it as something physical, whether that is onto one’s lover or as a figment of one’s imagination, these characters use escapism to protect this aspect of self that may be threatened by external factors. For the narrator, Louise represents all of the good parts of a relationship before it meets that ‘six month mark’ where things usually go south. For Mala, separating her childhood innocence and wish to escape keeps it from being corrupted by her father’s violence. However, this reaction is a bit paradoxical, since it puts one in harm’s way to protect one from another form of harm. Does this approach imply that keeping one’s childhood pure is essential?

The Body as a Collective Home

“The body as home, but only if it is understood that bodies are never singular, but rather haunted, strengthened, underscored by countless other bodies” (Clare 11).

In “Exile & Pride,” Eli Clare touches on the different ways our body can encapsulate contrasting parts of the self and its experience. The metaphor of “the body as home” has many meanings, but the one that I think it offers a particularly powerful message is about the importance of personal and collective ownership and comfort in the body.

The word “home” has many connotations, and it is usually associated with words like warmth, family, belonging, and permanence. However, for those like Clare who had a very difficult and traumatic childhood, they can “abandon that body” (10). To me, this makes the body feel like a house, not a home. It’s a place you’re forced to live in, but it doesn’t carry the same implications of belonging and happiness. This is why I find the word choice of “home” so important — it pushes the idea that to be truly happy, we have to find peace within our bodies, becoming intimately comfortable to a point where we feel like we can fully be ourselves in this safe haven.

Additionally, Clare goes on to say that a body isn’t singular but plural in that it is defined, influenced, and underscored (or emphasized) by other bodies, aka other people. This idea of singular versus plural is interesting because it pushes the idea that we are not alone, even in our own body. One could argue that everything we are — what we think, do, believe — is influenced by our surroundings and the people around us. In this way, bodies are like an amalgamation of others, a complex and clashing combination of traits and beliefs that are pushed onto us, willingly or not. And this number is “countless” — we don’t know how many people have physically or metaphorically touched us. It makes me think of a reading from my Mythology course, where it explained that the brain is a thief, stealing ideas from myths and stories around it to build a “personal narrative.” In this way, the body also steals what’s around it, for the better or worse.

The words Clare chooses to describe the house can be interpreted through the lens of a body or a home. “Haunted” makes me think of a haunted house, or a place of horrors that inspires fear. A person can also be haunted by their past or current anxieties. This double meaning of the word paints a very vivid connection between body and home. Similarly, a house can be structurally “strengthened” and a person can be metaphorically or physically “strengthened.” This word comes with connotations of energy and power, very positive emotions. The dichotomy of both of these existences living in one body adds to Clare’s larger point about the body as “complex, complicated, and contradictory.” Our bodies house so much; they make up who we are and what we’ve done. Clare hopes that by viewing our bodies as a home we can feel safe in, even if we don’t fully understand it, we can strive towards an internal and external embrace of who we are.

The Difference Between Loving and Becoming

“You are still the colour of my blood. You are my blood. When I look in the mirror it’s not my own face I see. Your body is twice. Once you once me. Can I be sure which is which?” (99)

The protagonist in Written on the Body loses themselves to their obsession with becoming Louise, not loving her. Winterson warns about the dangers of perception — how our own perceptions and views of a situation can cause us to ignore the desires of others. Five months into their relationship, the narrator has adopted the essence of Louise, both her personality and physical being. Through their ruminations on past lovers, one can notice that the protagonist picks up traits and copies the actions of their current lover. For example, they imitate their terrorist girlfriend, Inge, or try to emulate Jacqueline’s stability and want for a “normal” relationship. The narrator has always tried to match their partner, whether that’s to seem more appealing or simply because of their own lack of an individual personality, but never to the same level as they have with Louise. 

Here, the protagonist blurs the line between “you” and “me,” making “your blood/body” their own. Through the symbol of a mirror, the narrator sees themselves as a reflection or copy of Louise, literally seeing her face in the mirror. The narrator has no physical manifestation of who they are, and this is heightened by the lack of an assigned name and gender. The narrator instead is meant to reflect the experiences and personality of others, whether that is the reader who projects onto them or the other characters in the story whose personality they adopt. Mirrors are often used to represent the true self, which the narrator sees as Louise. By saying “once you once me,” the narrator implies that what once was Louise’s — namely her face, body, and personality — is now theirs, so much so that you can no longer differentiate them from one another. 

There’s this common theme throughout the novel that “it’s the cliches that cause the trouble.” The trope of two lovers becoming so intimate and in tune with one another that they become one soul is common, however this is perverted by the narrator, who wants to become Louise instead of “combining” with her. Louise is a very passive figure in the novel, who’s fate and control over her own body is decided by Elgin and the narrator. Both believe they have a claim to her body, and that their ideas and wishes are the same as hers. Namely, the narrator thinks their decision to leave aligns with Louise’s, because they think they are Louise. The narrator ignores Louise’s real wishes and her distrust of Elgin, instead deciding the fate of the body, their body, on their own. This “one mind, one body” mindset ignores Louise’s individuality, making her a passive owner of her own body. 

Interestingly enough, the narrator sees themself as the worst part of Louise, a part that is hurting and killing her by staying in the relationship. So, by cutting themselves out of Louise, like a tumor, they can “save her” from her cancer. However, just like a body part that has been amputated or removed, the narrator can barely survive on their own, doomed to wander aimlessly without the rest of it. This trope of a soulmate, or someone who is not whole without their lover, reappears here, with the narrator not being whole without the rest of their body and soul. The narrator’s worrying obsession and reliance on Louise as a source for life, literally their blood and body, points out the unhealthy dynamic in this relationship. The narrator doesn’t seem to love Louise for who she is, the strong woman who will do anything to leave her husband, but as a body, a thing, that can be used and abandoned. This warped perception of their body and the relationship only causes pain for both of them, and serves as a warning to the projecting reader.