Middlesex, by famed author Jeffrey Eugenides (The Virgin Suicides) is not just a tale of a hermaphrodite, as the title suggests. Instead, it is a tale to which we can all relate - one which eloquently recounts that age (from 13- infinity?) when no one feels like they really fit in anywhere. From middle school through high school and on, it defines what it means to be uncomfortable in your own skin. Possibly the only variation upon those bitter agonies synonymous with the teenage experience is the fact that here, the central character, (Calliope at the beginning and later Cal,) is a hermaphrodite.

One of the most interesting aspects of this novel, however, is the ease with which Eugenides does not force the issue of hermaphrodism upon us. As readers, yes, we are all aware of Calliope’s physical abnormality, but the story doesn’t obsess over it. In fact, Calliope herself isn’t introduced for a good 200 pages or so. Instead, Eugenides wisely focuses on her family history. Beginning with the great-great grand parents Desdemona and Milton, Eugenides weaves an incredibly vivid picture of ancestry spanning Turkey, Greece, New York and Detroit before Calliope is introduced as a mélange of each of her ancestors. When Calliope finally introduces herself as not merely the narrator, but as another quirky character in the story, she comments on her own persona and physicality- a Pandora’s box of perplexing qualities.

“Right next to him there’s me, his sometime sister, my face already a conundrum, flashing like a lenticular decal between two images: the dark-eyed, pretty little girl I used to be; and the severe, aquiline-nosed, Roman-coinish person I am today.”

Middlesex:
by Jeffrey Eugenides
Reviewed by Abby Davis

As with his first novel, The Virgin Suicides, Eugenides’ talent for detail is extraordinary. From his description of the incendiary village Smyrna, to suburban 1970’s Detroit, he never fails to paint a clear and stunning picture. His description of the Turkish war forces us to smell the ashes and taste the burnt air. Even more uncanny is Eugenides’ ability to write from the mind and heart of a troubled teenage girl; he dives immediately into Calliope’s transformation without so much as a pause for breath. At times, however, Middlesex is so filled to the brim with detail that it can be overwhelming. Unlike The Virgin Suicides, in which Eugenides used detail to propel the story, Middlesex might have you wondering, “Why is he telling us about the grandmother’s obsession with the Islamic church?”

While Eugenides probably could have done without many of the subplots, they’re not completely arbitrary. Eugenides makes a clear point of drawing a distinction between the past and the present and showing how it all comes together to form the divine creature that is Calliope herself.

Unlike The Virgin Suicides which was written with primarily simple and common words to form beautifully strung sentences, Middlesex is written completely in tune with the story- complex, to say the least. It seems as if Eugenides has an endless supply of words which might seem forced and out of place in any other novel. Words such as; inimical, fasces, abacus, domicile, nicitate, and panaghia are interwoven like sweet nectars into this novel. Describing the beauty of the Belle Isle Bridge, Eugenides writes, “The yellow globes of streetlamps glow, aureoled in the mist.” Yet he can still paint equally vivid pictures with simple words, as when he writes of 1970’s Detroit: “Now ten-year olds were running in the streets, carrying bricks. They were throwing bricks through store windows, laughing and jumping, thinking it was some kind of game, some kind of holiday.”

It is this sort of writing which creates an atmosphere completely different from that of any other writer—something seemingly unique and yet universal. It manages to trigger in us memories and senses we might not have been aware we ever possessed. At the core, that is what makes Eugenides’ writing so peaceful as well as daunting. Fellow writers may fall asleep reciting his passages in our dreams and wake up shaking, wondering whether any of us will ever be able to tell a story quite like him.