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Summary
Summary
Middlesex is the winner of the 2003 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction.
A dazzling triumph from the bestselling author of The Virgin Suicides --the astonishing tale of a gene that passes down through three generations of a Greek-American family and flowers in the body of a teenage girl.
"I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day of January 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of l974. . . My birth certificate lists my name as Calliope Helen Stephanides. My most recent driver's license...records my first name simply as Cal."
So begins the breathtaking story of Calliope Stephanides and three generations of the Greek-American Stephanides family who travel from a tiny village overlooking Mount Olympus in Asia Minor to Prohibition-era Detroit, witnessing its glory days as the Motor City, and the race riots of l967, before they move out to the tree-lined streets of suburban Grosse Pointe, Michigan. To understand why Calliope is not like other girls, she has to uncover a guilty family secret and the astonishing genetic history that turns Callie into Cal, one of the most audacious and wondrous narrators in contemporary fiction. Lyrical and thrilling, Jeffrey Eugenides's Middlesex is an exhilarating reinvention of the American epic.
Author Notes
Jeffrey Eugenides was born in Detroit, Michigan on March 8, 1960. He received a B.A. from Brown University and an M.A. in English and creative writing from Stanford University in 1986. His first novel, The Virgin Suicides, was published to in 1993 and was made into a feature film. His other works include Middlesex, which won the 2003 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, and The Marriage Plot. He is a professor of creative writing at Princeton University.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (1)
Guardian Review
When Jeffrey Eugenides came to the Guardian book club to discuss his novel Middlesex, there was admiration of the fact that such a sophisticated book, layered with literary allusions, should also have been a selection for the Oprah Winfrey book club. With its mixture of postmodern narrative trickery and old-fashioned family saga, it had managed to reach an unusual range of readers. The novelist confessed to taking a conscious pleasure in the trickery, much influenced by his own academic reading, but claimed to be entirely surprised that he had also produced a bestseller. The Oprah Winfrey website even ran a quiz about Middlesex, the second question of which no reader at the Guardian book club would have failed to answer correctly: "In which way are Lefty and Desdemona (the narrator's grandparents) not related? a) third cousins; b) brother and sister; c) husband and wife; d) aunt and nephew". The answer is d), and the fact that the couple are also brother and sister provoked some puzzlement. Why was this incest plot necessary? One visitor to the book club website who objected to the novel's plotting had a challenge - for me as much as for the novelist: "I can't quite articulate what I dislike so much about Middlesex, but it began with the incest, which wasn't a necessary part of the story and which I just found repugnant. If you manage to persuade me in this series of Middlesex's value, you'll have achieved something." In our discussion, Eugenides conceded that "some readers have thrown the book across the room" at the moment, early in the novel, when Lefty and Desdemona consummate their affection. "I sympathise with that," he said. It may feel like a shocking turn of the narrative, but the author explained that he had done everything he could to make it seem unsurprising. The characters come from a deeply insular community whose members are all inter-related. And, as he explained, the incest device is biologically necessary. Cal's 5-Alpha-reductase deficiency syndrome was caused by a recessive genetic mutation as a result of inbreeding. There had to be an explanation as to why this mutation had taken root and "flowered" over many generations. "I needed some kind of story to catch this idea." There was, he conceded, a tricky narrative issue here that readers often spotted: the possible implication that Cal's condition was the consequence of "immorality". If this were an Ibsen play, we would be thinking of the sins of one generation being visited upon another, he said. So he had done his best, to the exasperation of some readers, to normalise the incest - to remove it from morality. (He thought that American readers were more likely to be shocked by this than European readers.) Biological accuracy was clearly Eugenides's priority. All the literary imaginings of a changing of sex that he invokes in the novel - Hermaphroditus and Salmacis, Tiresias and Orlando - are fanciful, and he was, as he told us, doing it for real. Why, one reader asked, did he decide to make the fictional metamorphosis from female to male rather than vice versa? This makes the male condition his final and "true" self. "I chose female to male because that is the truth about that condition," was the simple answer. The novel had to be faithful to the medical textbooks (even if the medical profession comes in for some dark satire in the book). Readers wondered how those who shared Cal's condition might have reacted to the book. Eugenides told us that, at a reading in New York only "the other day", he had for the first time met someone with the extremely rare 5-Alpha-reductase deficiency. He had approached Eugenides and handed him a letter in which he said that he was grateful for the novel, but angry that he had not managed to write the book himself. The fact that the condition was real gave a more than usual edge to inquiries about the novelist's research. Until the recent post-reading encounter, his knowledge had all been from books, he said. He had been provoked into writing the novel by reading the surprisingly dull autobiography of Herculine Barbin, edited by Michel Foucault as Memoirs of a Nineteenth-Century French Hermaphrodite What about Cal's/Callie's teenage experiences? "What research did you do for Cal's account of when he is getting changed at school in a female changing room? How did you manage to figure out what the atmosphere would be like in that female changing room?" The novelist answered that he had simply recalled the anxiety of his own pubescent locker-room experience and made a few necessary adjustments. "Now," he observed, "no one disrobes in the whole of America - it's thought to be too traumatic." At least one reader wearied of the discussion of gender. She compared it to some of the discussion of sexual identity in a previous book club exchange with Alan Hollinghurst. This had been focused, she remembered, on the analysis of attitudes to gay sexuality rather than of the business of fiction. Didn't our author get weary of all the talk of gender politics? No, he didn't - he only worried when he was told that the novel should have been putting forward an argument. This reader was clearly more interested in the formal playfulness of the novel - but this too has delighted some and irked others. "I love how the narrative perspective appears to have evolved through being unsure and experimenting with the voice," wrote one book club commenter. Another, however, expressed exasperation at Eugenides's impossibly "omniscient" narrator, able to report accurately on the unknowable thoughts and actions of other characters. "I read Middlesex quite recently, and I found this narrative device intensely irritating. I couldn't - and can't - see the point of it." But Eugenides did point out that others have done this. Perhaps this reader would be irritated by Tristram Shandy too. John Mullan is professor of English at University College London. Next week he discusses A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Sponsors of the Guardian's book club - John Mullan Caption: Captions: To order a copy of Middlesex for pounds 5.39 with free UK p&p call Guardian book service on 0330 333 6846 In our discussion, [Jeffrey Eugenides] conceded that "some readers have thrown the book across the room" at the moment, early in the novel, when Lefty and Desdemona consummate their affection. "I sympathise with that," he said. It may feel like a shocking turn of the narrative, but the author explained that he had done everything he could to make it seem unsurprising. The characters come from a deeply insular community whose members are all inter-related. And, as he explained, the incest device is biologically necessary. Cal's 5-Alpha-reductase deficiency syndrome was caused by a recessive genetic mutation as a result of inbreeding. There had to be an explanation as to why this mutation had taken root and "flowered" over many generations. "I needed some kind of story to catch this idea." What about Cal's/Callie's teenage experiences? "What research did you do for Cal's account of when he is getting changed at school in a female changing room? How did you manage to figure out what the atmosphere would be like in that female changing room?" The novelist answered that he had simply recalled the anxiety of his own pubescent locker-room experience and made a few necessary adjustments. "Now," he observed, "no one disrobes in the whole of America - it's thought to be too traumatic." This reader was clearly more interested in the formal playfulness of the novel - but this too has delighted some and irked others. "I love how the narrative perspective appears to have evolved through being unsure and experimenting with the voice," wrote one book club commenter. Another, however, expressed exasperation at Eugenides's impossibly "omniscient" narrator, able to report accurately on the unknowable thoughts and actions of other characters. "I read Middlesex quite recently, and I found this narrative device intensely irritating. I couldn't - and can't - see the point of it." But Eugenides did point out that others have done this. Perhaps this reader would be irritated by Tristram Shandy too. - John Mullan.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Book One The Silver Spoon I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974. Specialized readers may have come across me in Dr. Peter Luce`s study, "Gender Identity in 5-Alpha-Reductase Pseudohermaphrodites," published in the Journal of Pediatric Endocrinology in 1975. Or maybe you`ve seen my photograph in chapter sixteen of the now sadly outdated Genetics and Heredity. That`s me on page 578, standing naked beside a height chart with a black box covering my eyes. My birth certificate lists my name as Calliope Helen Stephanides. My most recent driver`s license (from the Federal Republic of Germany) records my first name simply as Cal. I`m a former field hockey goalie, long-standing member of the Save-the-Manatee Foundation, rare attendant at the Greek Orthodox mass, and, for most of my adult life, an employee of the U.S. State Department. Like Tiresias, I was first one thing and then the other. I`ve been ridiculed classmates, guinea-pigged doctors, palpated specialists, and researched the March of Dimes. A redheaded girl from Grosse Pointe fell in love with me, not knowing what I was. (Her brother liked me, too.) An army tank led me into urban baffle once; a swimming pool turned me into myth; I`ve left my body in order to occupy others-and all this happened before I turned sixteen. But now, at the age of forty-one, I feel another birth coming on. After decades of neglect, I find myself thinking about departed great-aunts and -uncles, long-lost grandfathers, unknown fifth cousins, or, in the case of an inbred family like mine, all those things in one. And so before it`s too late I want to get it down for good: this roller-coaster ride of a single gene through time. Sing now, O Muse, of the recessive mutation on my fifth chromosome! Sing how it bloomed two and a half centuries ago on the slopes of Mount Olympus, while the goats bleated and the olives dropped. Sing how it passed down through nine generations, gathering invisibly within the polluted pool of the Stephanides family. And sing how Providence, in the guise of a massacre, sent the gene flying again; how it blew like a seed across the sea to America, where it drifted through our industrial rains until it fell to earth in the fertile soil of my mother`s own mid-western womb. Sorry if I get a little Homeric at times. That`s genetic, too. Three months before I was born, in the aftermath of one of our elaborate Sunday dinners, my grandmother Desdemona Stephanides ordered my brother to get her silkworm box. Chapter Eleven had been heading toward the kitchen for a second helping of rice pudding when she blocked his way. At fifty-seven, with her short, squat figure and intimidating hairnet, my grandmother was perfectly designed for blocking people`s paths. Behind her in the kitchen, the day`s large female contingent had congregated, laughing and whispering. Intrigued, Chapter Eleven leaned sideways to see what was going on, but Desdemona reached out and firmly, hegemonically even, pinched his cheek. Having regained his attention, she sketched a rectangle in the air and pointed at the ceiling. Then, through her ill-fitting dentures, she said, "Go for yia yia, dolly mou." Chapter Eleven knew what to do. He ran across the hall into the living room. On all fours he scrambled up the formal staircase to the second floor. He raced past the bedrooms along the upstairs corridor. At the far end was a nearly invisible door, wallpapered over like the entrance to a secret passageway. Chapter Eleven located the tiny doorknob level with his head and, using all his strength, pulled it open. Another set of stairs lay behind it. For a long moment my brother stared hesitantly into the darkness above, before climbing, very slowly now, up to the attic where my grandparents lived. In sneakers he passed beneath the twelve, damply newspapered birdcages suspended from the rafters. With a brave face he immersed himself in the sour odor of the parakeets, and in my grandparents` own particular aroma, a mixture of mothballs and hashish. He negotiated his way past my grandfather`s book-piled desk and his collection of rebetika records. Finally, bumping into the leather ottoman and the circular coffee table made of brass, he found my grandparents` bed and, under it, the silkworm box. Carved from olivewood, a little bigger than a shoe box, it had a tin lid perforated tiny airholes and inset with the icon of an unrecognizable saint. The saint`s face had been rubbed off, but the fingers of his right hand were raised to bless a short, purple, terrifically self-confident-looking mulberry tree. After gazing awhile at this vivid botanical presence, Chapter Eleven pulled the box from under the bed and opened it. Inside were the two wedding crowns made from rope and, coiled like snakes, the two long braids of hair, each tied with a crumbling black ribbon. He poked one of the braids with his index finger. Just then a parakeet squawked, making my brother jump, and he closed the box, tucked it under his arm, and carried it downstairs to Desdemona. She was still waiting in the doorway. Taking the silkworm box out of his hands, she turned back into the kitchen. At this point Chapter Eleven was granted a view of the room, where all the women now fell silent. They moved aside to let Desdemona pass and there, in the middle of the linoleum, was my mother. Tessie Stephanides was leaning back in a kitchen chair, pinned beneath the immense, drum-tight globe of her pregnant belly. She had a happy, helpless expression on her face, which was flushed and hot. Desdemona set the silkworm box on the kitchen table and opened the lid. She reached under the wedding crowns and the hair braids to come up with something Chapter Eleven hadn`t seen: a silver spoon. She tied a piece of string to the spoon`s handle. Then, stooping forward, she dangled the spoon over my mother`s swollen belly. And, extension, over me. Up until now Desdemona had had a perfect record: twenty-three correct guesses. She`d known that Tessie was going to be Tessie. She`d predicted the sex of my brother and my four classically named cousins, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and Cleopatra. The only children whose genders she hadn`t divined were her own, because it was bad luck for a mother to plumb the mysteries of her own womb. Fearlessly, however, she plumbed my mother`s. After some initial hesitation, the spoon swung north to south, which meant that I was going to be a boy. Splay-legged in the chair, my mother tried to smile. She didn`t want a boy. She had one already. In fact, she was so certain I was going to be a girl that she`d picked out only one name for me: Calliope. But when my grandmother shouted in Greek, "A boy!" the cry went around the room, and out into the hall, and across the hall into the living room where the men were arguing politics. And my mother, hearing it repeated so many times, began to believe it might be true. As soon as the cry reached my father, however, he marched into the kitchen to tell his mother that, this time at least, her spoon was wrong. "And how you know so much?" Desdemona asked him. To which he replied what many Americans of his generation would have: "It`s science, Ma." Ever since they had decided to have another child-the diner was doing well and Chapter Eleven was long out of diapers-Milton and Tessie had been in agreement that they wanted a daughter. Chapter Eleven had just turned five years old. He`d recently found a dead bird in the yard, bringing it into the house to show his mother. He liked shooting things, hammering things, smashing things, and wrestling with his father. In such a masculine household, Tessie had begun to feel like the odd woman out and saw herself in ten years` time imprisoned in a world of hubcaps and hernias. My mother pictured a daughter as a counterinsurgent: a fellow lover of lapdogs, a seconder of proposals to attend the Ice Capades. In the spring of 1959, when discussions of my fertilization got under way, my mother couldn`t envision that women would soon be burning their brassieres the thousand. Hers were padded, stiff, fire-retardant. As much as Tessie loved her son, she knew there were certain things she`d be able to share only with a daughter. On his morning drive to work, my father had been seeing visions of a irresistibly sweet, dark-eyed little girl. She sat on the seat beside him-mostly during stoplights-directing questions at his patient, all-knowing ear. "What do you call that thing, Daddy?" "That? That`s the Cadillac seal." "What`s the Cadillac seal?" "Well, a long time ago, there was a French explorer named Cadillac, and he was the one who discovered Detroit. And that seal was his family seal, from France." "What`s France?" "France is a country in Europe." "What`s Europe?" "It`s a continent, which is like a great big piece of land, way, way bigger than a country. But Cadillacs don`t come from Europe anymore, kukla. They come from right here in the good old U.S.A." The light turned green and he drove on. But my prototype lingered. She was there at the next light and the next. So pleasant was her company that my father, a man loaded with initiative, decided to see what he could do to turn his vision into reality. Thus: for some time now, in the living room where the men discussed politics, they had also been discussing the velocity of sperm. Peter Tatakis, "Uncle Pete," as we called him, was a leading member of the debating society that formed every week on our black love seats. A lifelong bachelor, he had no family in America and so had become attached to ours. Every Sunday he arrived in his wine-dark Buick, a tall, prune-faced, sad-seeming man with an incongruously vital head of wavy hair. He was not interested in children. A proponent of the Great Books series-which he had read twice-Uncle Pete was engaged with serious thought and Italian opera. He had a passion, in history, for Edward Gibbon, and, in literature, for the journals of Madame de Staël. He liked to quote that witty lady`s opinion on the German language, which held that German wasn`t good for conversation because you had to wait to the end of the sentence for the verb, and so couldn`t interrupt. Uncle Pete had wanted to become a doctor, but the "catastrophe" had ended that dream. In the United States, he`d put himself through two years of chiropractic school, and now ran a small office in Birmingham with a human skeleton he was still paying for in installments. In those days, chiropractors had a somewhat dubious reputation. People didn`t come to Uncle Pete to free up their kundalini. He cracked necks, straightened spines, and made custom arch supports out of foam rubber. Still, he was the closest thing to a doctor we had in the house on those Sunday afternoons. As a young man he`d had half his stomach surgically removed, and now after dinner always drank a Pepsi-Cola to help digest his meal. The soft drink had been named for the digestive enzyme pepsin, he sagely told us, and so was suited to the task. It was this kind of knowledge that led my father to trust what Uncle Pete said when it came to the reproductive timetable. His head on a throw pillow, his shoes off, Madama Butterfly softly playing on my parents` stereo, Uncle Pete explained that, under the microscope, sperm carrying male chromosomes had been observed to swim faster than those carrying female chromosomes. This assertion generated immediate merriment among the restaurant owners and fur finishers assembled in our living room. My father, however, adopted the pose of his favorite piece of sculpture, The Thinker, a miniature of which sat across the room on the telephone table. Though the topic had been brought up in the open-forum atmosphere of those postprandial Sundays, it was clear that, notwithstanding the impersonal tone of the discussion, the sperm they were talking about was my father`s. Uncle Pete made it clear: to have a girl ba, a couple should "have sexual congress twenty-four hours prior to ovulation." That way, the swift male sperm would rush in and die off. The female sperm, sluggish but more reliable, would arrive just as the egg dropped. My father had trouble persuading my mother to go along with the scheme. Tessie Zizmo had been a virgin when she married Milton Stephanides at the age of twenty-two. Their engagement, which coincided with the Second World War, had been a chaste affair. My mother was proud of the way she`d managed to simultaneously kindle and snuff my father`s flame, keeping him at a low burn for the duration of a global cataclysm. This hadn`t been all that difficult, however, since she was in Detroit and Milton was in Annapolis at the U.S. Naval Academy. For more than a year Tessie lit candles at the Greek church for her fiancé, while Milton gazed at her photographs pinned over his bunk. He liked to pose Tessie in the manner of the movie magazines, standing sideways, one high heel raised on a step, an expanse of black stocking visible. My mother looks surprisingly pliable in those old snapshots, as though she liked nothing better than to have her man in uniform arrange her against the porches and lampposts of their humble neighborhood. She didn`t surrender until after Japan had. Then, from their wedding night onward (according to what my brother told my covered ears), my parents made love regularly and enjoyably. When it came to having children, however, my mother had her own ideas. It was her belief that an embryo could sense the amount of love with which it had been created. For this reason, my father`s suggestion didn`t sit well with her. "What do you think this is, Milt, the Olympics?" "We were just speaking theoretically," said my father. "What does Uncle Pete know about having babies?" "He read this particular article in Scientific American," Milton said. And to bolster his case: "He`s a subscriber." "Listen, if my back went out, I`d go to Uncle Pete. If I had flat feet like you do, I`d go. But that`s it." "This has all been verified. Under the microscope. The male sperms are faster." "I bet they`re stupider, too." "Go on. Malign the male sperms all you want. Feel free. We don`t want a male sperm. What we want is a good old, slow, reliable female sperm." "Even if it`s true, it`s still ridiculous. I can`t just do it like clockwork, Milt." "It`ll be harder on me than you." "I don`t want to hear it." "I thought you wanted a daughter." "I do." "Well," said my father, "this is how we can get one." Tessie laughed the suggestion off. But behind her sarcasm was a serious moral reservation. To tamper with something as mysterious and miraculous as the birth of a child was an act of hubris. In the first place, Tessie didn`t believe you could do it. Even if you could, she didn`t believe you should try. Of course, a narrator in my position (prefetal at the time) can`t be entirely sure about any of this. I can only explain the scientific mania that overtook my father during that spring of `59 as a symptom of the belief in progress that was infecting everyone back then. Remember, Sputnik had been launched only two years earlier. Polio, which had kept my parents quarantined indoors during the summers of their childhood, had been conquered the Salk vaccine. People had no idea that viruses were cleverer than human beings, and thought they`d soon be a thing of the past. In that optimistic, postwar America, which I caught the tail end of, everybody was the master of his own destiny, so it only followed that my father would try to be the master of his. ard A few days after he had broached his plan to Tessie, Milton came home one evening with a present. It was a jewelry box tied with a ribbon. "What`s this for?" Tessie asked suspiciously. "What do you mean, what is it for?" "It`s not my birthday. It`s not our anniversary. So why are you giving me a present?" "Do I have to have a reason to give you a present? Go on. Open it." Tessie crumpled up one corner of her mouth, unconvinced. But it was difficult to hold a jewelry box in your hand without opening it. So finally she slipped off the ribbon and snapped the box open. Copyright (c) 2002 by Jeffrey Eugenides. All rights reserved. Excerpted from Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.