EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND - AUGUST 11:  Helen Morton...

As I think about some of the most famous female characters in literature and drama, I am struck by how many of them wind up taking their own lives: Antigone, Jocasta (Antigone’s mother), Eurydice (Antigone’s aunt)—and that’s just one ancient Greek storyline. If you throw Shakespeare into the mix, the list gets even longer: Juliet, Ophelia, Lady Macbeth, Goneril, Portia, Cleopatra…et. al.

Moving into the modern era, the body count grows: Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina, Hedda Gabler, Edna Pontilier, Joan Gilling (from Sylvia Plath’s The Belle Jar—and later, Plath herself). Even the character Rose DeWitt Bukater (played by Kate Winslet) from the box office blockbuster film Titanic contemplates throwing herself off the back of the ship until Jack Dawson steps in to save her.

So why is it that so many heroines choose to consign themselves to oblivion (or as Hamlet describes it, “the undiscovered country”)? Statistically, more women than men attempt suicide. However, men are much more successful at it than women, often because they choose methods that are more violent. (In the U.S., for instance, male death rates due to suicide are at least four times greater than those for women. In other countries, such as Lithuania and Russia, the male to female ratio is five to one.) If men take their own lives more often, why are female suicides so disproportionately represented in stories and on screen?

To answer these questions, it may be helpful to examine the topic historically. In Classical myths, for example, women typically commit suicide for the following reasons: abandonment, grief, unrequited love, shame, rape, incest, madness, self-sacrifice, fear, and frustration. (Paradoxically, this last category seems to apply to immortals only; both the Sirens and the Sphinx leap to their deaths after Odysseus and Oedipus overcome their powers.) The methods these women use to do themselves in include hanging, drowning, jumping to their deaths, stabbing, leaping into fire, drinking poison, and or even being swallowed by the earth.

Victorian female characters often end their lives for similar reasons, and like today, they usually choose more passive means than their male counterparts, such as drinking poison or drowning. Even in modern stories, suicidal female characters will usually opt for a bottle of pills or a razor blade rather than jumping in front of a train or reaching into the gun cabinet.

Regardless of their methods, the women who choose the path of suicide seem to fall into two main categories: those who are downright delusional and those whose suicide is an act of desperation or defiance because they feel backed into a corner in some way. Ophelia and Lady Macbeth are clearly in the delusional camp (although some would argue that Ophelia’s delusion is the result of feeling trapped by male expectations). Others, like Edna Pontilier, feel so trapped by the male power-brokers in their world that they see death as their only way out. The doomed wife, April Wheeler, from the book Revolutionary Road definitely falls into this category.

Then there are those particular characters (some would say the statistical majority of women who attempt to take their own lives) who use suicide as a way of drawing attention to themselves—the proverbial “cry for help.” Susanna Kaysen (Wynonna Ryder’s character in the film Girl Interrupted) is a prime example of this, as is Charlotte Bronte’s character, Mary Cave (from the novel Shirley) who dies of starvation for love. Are these women desperate? Delusional? Or are there different psychological issues at work here?

Through the ages, critics have argued that some suicidal women demonstrate their own brand of heroism by becoming the ultimate masters of their fates. In certain cases this may be true, such as the two female leads in Quentin Tarantino’s movie, Inglourious Basterds (Shoshana, who embarks on a suicide mission, and Bridget von Hammersmark, a screen actress who understands the inherent risks associated with wartime espionage). However, whether or not other types of suicides are considered acts of courage or cowardice is as much a reflection of the audiences’ sensibilities as it is the characters’. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why writers have historically included suicidal women in their narratives. Not only does it reflect a disturbing reality of society, it also brings about powerful dramatic tension—a staple of good storytelling.

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The Road to Wellville (US cover)
Image via Wikipedia

Fort Collins, Colorado selected the author T. C. Boyle for their One Book, One Town event.  They chose Tortilla Curtain to read and then celebrate as a community. Unfamiliar with his work, I picked up The Road to Wellville for a few bucks at a used book store.

The prose was erudite and pleonastic from the beginning. There was the usual assortment of characters with their requisite personality quirks, bad habits, flaws and weaknesses both physical and psychological. The plot had plenty of thieving and deceiving and other intriguing facts of interest surrounding the development of the cereal business at the beginning of the twentieth century. So why didn’t I enjoy it more? Because not one of the characters invoked an ounce of empathy. They all came off as flat footed. I never cared about Charles Ossining, the young, up and coming huckster being conned out of his benefactor’s investment. Nor Will Lightbody, an ailing silver spooned sap of a husband and his snobby, manipulative wife, Eleanor. She secretly drugged him with an opium laced drink she bought from Sears and later gets taken in herself by a charlatan ‘womb manipulator’.  I certainly didn’t empathize with the real life Dr. Kellogg as he forced yogurt enemas on the sheep that flocked to his vegetarian, anti-sexual cult sanitarium in Battle Creek, Michigan.

For historical fiction to work, like any other form of fiction, there has to be a feeling of connection to at least one of the main characters. The best example I can give is George Garrett’s Death of The Fox.  Years ago while flying home after a full week of one night stopover travel and exhausting meetings, I was sitting at the back of a plane, losing myself in the book. The way he described the relationship between two real people, the motivations behind their choices and the emotional consequences of their actions triggered an otherworldly epiphany, like a therapeutic tangent with something bigger than me, and my little world. Great fiction, especially historical fiction, should give the reader a sense of discovery, even if it’s bringing something we already know to the surface.

In contrast The Road to Wellville read more like high brow journalism, something I’d find in Esquire. Big words, and lots of them, but scant on motivational depth. I found myself skimming over large blocks of text to get to the plot points, mainly because the characters seemed mere objects to the story rather than the vessels transporting the meaning and significance of their actions.

For all the nicely turned imagery, skillful prose, and period appropriate vocabulary in The Road to Wellville, it was only slightly memorable, thanks to the yogurt enemas.

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A Woman’s Advice to Hollywood

February 1, 2010

Image via WikipediaHollywood is guilty of committing many offenses. Among them is their idea of what women want to see in movies. Following is number one of perhaps several bits of advice an average woman such as myself would like to pass along to those that make movies:
Stop trying to inject love stories into action [...]

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Superman: Our Ideals in a Cape

January 31, 2010

This is the first in my odd little series taking about superhero characters. In my kickoff post I explained how in some ways they are the modern Gods – created in our image to put into stories to help us understand ourselves better. How does Superman, probably the most famous of this clan, fit?
The Hero
The [...]

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Falsified

January 27, 2010

Image by skylarprimm via Flickr

The gates swung shut with a sonorous clang and St. Peter turned to the line.
“Next.” A man stepped forth from the head of the milling throng and approached.
“Wow,” the man said gazing at the tall gates, “I’m finally here. It’s a long wait on line.”
“Name?” said St. Peter.
“Those gates sure are [...]

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