Mr. Fox
Every now and then you come across a book that seems like it was written just for you.
Helen Oyeyemi's Mr. Fox is, as I mentioned, a retelling of the English folktale, Mr. Fox. It's more than that, though, bringing in elements of Bluebeard and Fitcher's Bird. Reynardine makes a significant enough appearance that I went to look him up. There are probably other, similar folktales woven through that I didn't recognize.
Oyeyemi is amazingly well-researched. And her ability to weave together all these tales, to find the common threads, is amazing. Although the structure of the book certainly lends itself to a multitude of related tales.
Mr. Fox centers on a famous author, St. John Fox, who has a habit of of killing the women in his stories. He has a wife named Daphne, who appears passive at first ("I fixed her early", Mr. Fox claims. "I told her in heartfelt tones that one of the reasons I love her is because she never complains. So now of course she doesn’t dare complain.") but gains strength as the story goes on. And, of course, there's Mr. Fox's muse, Mary.
Mary is little more than a figment of St John's imagination, a voice in his head that he created to help him early in his writing career. But now she's mad at him for his woman-killing habit. She's mad at him because he created her and she has no life of her own. She's mad at him and she's falling in love with him and as the story goes on she comes to resemble his wife more and more.
St. John and his muse chase each other through a series of stories. The challenge each other and fall in love with each other and try, time and again, to avoid the tragic end. But in the background, Daphne is growing suspicious and jealous and considering a dalliance of her own.
I loved this book because it felt like a mirror for my life. Entire paragraphs would ring so true that I had to put the book down to absorb them. Then I'd snatch the book back up, hungrily re-reading and moving to the next page, only to come up short again. I saw myself in these pages. Saw people I've loved and hated and failed to understand and reached a sort of peace with all of it. Or at least acceptance. Or commiseration.
I'm not alone. That's all we want from books. That assurance that someone out there has had the same experiences. The same reactions. Not similar. We get that from our friends and siblings. But the same. To read something and think that you could have written it, if only you knew how to string the words together. To be in awe of this person for perfectly expressing something you've never really been able to. Something you're maybe a little embarrassed about or ashamed of.
This book was cathartic and beautiful and will be staying with me for a long, long time.
Helen Oyeyemi's Mr. Fox is, as I mentioned, a retelling of the English folktale, Mr. Fox. It's more than that, though, bringing in elements of Bluebeard and Fitcher's Bird. Reynardine makes a significant enough appearance that I went to look him up. There are probably other, similar folktales woven through that I didn't recognize.
Oyeyemi is amazingly well-researched. And her ability to weave together all these tales, to find the common threads, is amazing. Although the structure of the book certainly lends itself to a multitude of related tales.
Mr. Fox centers on a famous author, St. John Fox, who has a habit of of killing the women in his stories. He has a wife named Daphne, who appears passive at first ("I fixed her early", Mr. Fox claims. "I told her in heartfelt tones that one of the reasons I love her is because she never complains. So now of course she doesn’t dare complain.") but gains strength as the story goes on. And, of course, there's Mr. Fox's muse, Mary.
Mary is little more than a figment of St John's imagination, a voice in his head that he created to help him early in his writing career. But now she's mad at him for his woman-killing habit. She's mad at him because he created her and she has no life of her own. She's mad at him and she's falling in love with him and as the story goes on she comes to resemble his wife more and more.
St. John and his muse chase each other through a series of stories. The challenge each other and fall in love with each other and try, time and again, to avoid the tragic end. But in the background, Daphne is growing suspicious and jealous and considering a dalliance of her own.
I loved this book because it felt like a mirror for my life. Entire paragraphs would ring so true that I had to put the book down to absorb them. Then I'd snatch the book back up, hungrily re-reading and moving to the next page, only to come up short again. I saw myself in these pages. Saw people I've loved and hated and failed to understand and reached a sort of peace with all of it. Or at least acceptance. Or commiseration.
I'm not alone. That's all we want from books. That assurance that someone out there has had the same experiences. The same reactions. Not similar. We get that from our friends and siblings. But the same. To read something and think that you could have written it, if only you knew how to string the words together. To be in awe of this person for perfectly expressing something you've never really been able to. Something you're maybe a little embarrassed about or ashamed of.
This book was cathartic and beautiful and will be staying with me for a long, long time.
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