Wide Sargasso Sea

My evolving reactions to this novel went like this: First I was excited about the premise, then I was a bit disappointed by the execution, and then I was frustrated by what I consider to be overly negative reviews from other readers. Because although I wasn’t entirely satisfied with Rhys’s portrayal of Antoinette, a lot of reader criticism seems to underappreciate the vastness of what this little novel accomplishes. It does a lot more than provide a backstory for Jane Eyre‘s most neglected character. It explores the lingering consequences of slavery and colonialism, the alienation of belonging nowhere, and the power others have to define a person’s identity. All with concise and symbolic prose.

The novel’s biggest strength is its portrayal of the complicated racial and social hierarchy of colonial Jamaica. It’s not simply a matter of Black versus white, or colonizers versus the colonized. Antoinette is a white Creole, born in Jamaica to a family that once owned slaves but has since lost much of its wealth and social standing. Her family’s history makes them a target of understandable resentment from the formerly enslaved population, while their Caribbean identity also sets them apart from the English. Even as a small child, Antoinette is ostracized by the people around her, neglected by a mother who is preoccupied with caring for her disabled brother, and left trying to find her place in a society in which she doesn’t seem to belong anywhere.

The novel isn’t just about madness, but about who gets to decide what madness is.

This idea of belonging becomes even more important when the unnamed Mr. Rochester enters her life. Their relationship is interesting because his power doesn’t initially come from money. In fact, it’s Antoinette’s inheritance that allows Rochester to become financially independent in the first place. His power mostly just comes from his position as an English gentleman and, perhaps more importantly, as her husband. And yet, despite the enormous advantage he holds over her, he seems weirdly jealous of Antoinette and her connection to this place he cannot fully comprehend. He views the Caribbean as both beautiful and threatening. He cannot make sense of its people, customs, or even his own wife, and his lack of understanding spirals into suspicion and resentment. But instead of sincerely trying to understand Antoinette, he becomes determined to control her, going so far as to unilaterally decide to rename her Bertha. If you didn’t already dislike Rochester in Jane Eyre, this book might do the trick.

Once they’re married, both Antoinette and Rochester begin to show signs of madness, if you ask me. Rochester becomes increasingly suspicious of his wife after hearing rumors about her family’s history of mental illness. His insecurity, prejudice, and paranoia gradually lead to a bizarre level of cruelty and possessiveness toward Antoinette. Meanwhile, Antoinette’s deteriorating mental state is more understandable to me. After growing up surrounded by racial hostility and social isolation, losing her childhood home in a violent attack, witnessing her mother’s mental collapse, and being abandoned by nearly everyone she loves, she faces yet more betrayal and rejection from her new husband. He eventually takes her away from the only home she’s ever known, robs her of everything she owns, and basically imprisons her in isolation in a foreign country. But regardless of which character is behaving more irrationally, or whose behavior is more understandable, Rochester is the one with the power to declare Antoinette mad, and she has very little ability to challenge him. The novel isn’t just about madness, but about who gets to decide what madness is.

Another thing I really appreciated was Rhys’s ability to convey the atmosphere of the Caribbean landscape. Her descriptions are lovely and vivid, but there’s almost always something unsettling beneath the surface. A great example comes early in the novel, when Antoinette compares the overgrown garden at Coulibri to the biblical Garden of Eden.

“Our garden was large and beautiful as that garden in the Bible—the tree of life grew there. But it had gone wild. The paths were overgrown and a smell of dead flowers mixed with the fresh living smell. Underneath the tree ferns, tall as forest tree ferns, the light was green. Orchids flourished out of reach or for some reason not to be touched. One was snaky looking, another like an octopus with long thin brown tentacles bare of leaves hanging from a twisted root. Twice a year the octopus orchid flowered—then not an inch of tentacle showed. It was a bell-shaped mass of white, mauve, deep purples, wonderful to see. The scent was very sweet and strong. I never went near it.”

I like how Rhys describes things in a way that feels simultaneously beautiful and sinister. It’s very fitting for an estate whose prosperity depended on slavery, and it also does a good job of just setting a general vibe of uneasiness in anticipation of things to come.

As much as I respect the novel, I still can’t say it’s a personal standout for me. My biggest disappointment is that I never felt like I got a particularly strong sense of Antoinette herself. Her personality remains vague and elusive, and I came away with a much better understanding of what happened to her than of who she actually was as a person. I can appreciate how Rochester’s increasing control over the narrative reflects his control over her life, but I also think it comes at the cost of continuing to deny Antoinette a complete voice of her own.

Her personality remains vague and elusive, and I came away with a much better understanding of what happened to her than of who she actually was as a person.

I’ll also admit that I had a hard time getting into the story at first. The fragmented, modernist writing style can be disorienting, much of the dialogue is written in Caribbean dialects unfamiliar to me, and readers are dropped straight into a complicated historical setting with little explanation. Still, there were a few things that helped me better understand and appreciate the book, even if they didn’t necessarily make me love it.

First, try listening to an audiobook. There’s a recording available on YouTube, and hearing the dialogue spoken aloud improved my comprehension immensely compared with my initial attempts to read the print edition. Second, brush up on the history of British colonialism in the Caribbean, especially the racial and social dynamics surrounding the abolition of slavery in the 1830s. Being aware of some of the broader context made a huge difference in my understanding of the story and helped me recognize meaning I might otherwise have missed. Third, read a little about Jean Rhys herself. She grew up in Dominica as a white Creole, and it’s fascinating how her own experiences informed the novel, much the same way that Charlotte Brontë drew upon her own life experiences to create Jane Eyre. And, of course, it doesn’t hurt to have completed Jane Eyre as prerequisite reading.