Written on the Body

Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body

As readers, we praise those writers who can once in a while bring something different to the table, things that serve our insatiable desire towards always a different perspective, different narrative from yet another surprising protagonist. We claim ourselves to be too familiar with the literary device that oftentimes we judge certain work to be uninspiring and clichéd. However unjust this might appear, in our attempt to evaluate a certain piece of literature, we must, personal feelings aside, summon the whole literary context to see in what position this work might find its stance. In Written on the Body, English novelist Jeanette Winterson showcases a perspective that may be considered idiosyncratic; however, the efforts conveyed only appear self-indulgent and patronizing when she fails to engage the reader with her over-polished language and the obviously contrived narrative.

Written on the Body takes up gender issues but without further examining it. Given an unnamed protagonist with no sexual specifications, we find ourselves wondering anxiously through the novel whether the speaker is a he or she, our anxiety a solid proof that we are too much confined within the social stereotypes. Nevertheless, the tale falls short in sustaining this issue and exploring its other possibilities. As descriptions of the “Body” are restricted mostly to that of the females’, the work concerns too much with its self-appointed sex than the panoramic examination which is otherwise promised. Winterson’s inconsistent treatment over such issue ultimately restricted the work into a prejudiced narrative that it originally tries to mock.

One significant part of the novel contributes to a series reference to human body parts, through which the protagonist identifies his/ her feelings towards the loved one. Here the author tries to bridge the gap between physical and spiritual existence, and to develop in flesh a “language” that represents love. Despite its seeming innovation, the metaphorical relation between body and mind seems awkward and forced when Winterson only manages to present forced connections through her over-sentimental love account. The main plot, interrupted by such experimental writing, appears incoherent in its development, the tale relatively common and stale.

Written on the Body stumbles on its way to revelation; it is a philosophical meditation that goes astray. Winterson unfortunately does the translation between the body and the mind poorly as our mentor; consequently, the book reveals nothing but Greek. The book is unbelievably self-indulgent as the protagonist absorbs in his/her own intoxication all the way through. Eventually, the author proves herself not prophet but a common mortal who, like all of us, struggles to find the truth. Readers would be surprised to find, despite the work’s rather short length, how dull and lengthy the novel feels with only false teaching contains. Obviously, we need a guru with clearer mind; one who can teach us his/her own philosophy, instead of a second rate thinker who makes us all fools by following her all over the place. This book is nothing but a great disappointment.