Tiger, Tiger: What is the point of reading this memoir of abuse?
Tiger, Tiger: What is the point of reading this memoir of abuse? | Comment is free | The Observer
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Tiger, Tiger, the graphic account of an abused child's relationship with a 51-year-old paedophile, is already being hyped as the most controversial book of the year. A writer, a psychologist and a survivor give their verdict
The critic - Rachel Cooke
Picture a seven-year-old girl. She is called Margaux. She likes ice-cream and gum balls, though only red ones. She dislikes puzzles and the scary-looking jokers in a pack of cards, which she insists be removed before any game is played. Now picture her lover, Peter. Yes, you read that right. Her lover. He is 51 years old, and a self-taught locksmith. He has limp, grey hair, cut in a bowl, and a collection of exotic pets. One of these pets is a cayman, "part alligator, part crocodile". The cayman, living in captivity in the oppressive fug of Peter's apartment, is tiny, just half the size of Margaux's arm. But his owner likes him that way. For Peter, small is beautiful. He would like Margaux to stay small, too. Her birthdays make him more than usually tearful, for they remind him as if he needed reminding that she is rapidly approaching the end of what they both think of as her "nymphdom".
If you want to know more about Margaux and Peter's 15-year relationship conducted in full view of a number of perfectly sentient adults, it ended only when Peter killed himself by jumping off a cliff then you should head out to your local bookstore and reserve a copy of Tiger, Tiger, surely the most hyped memoir that 2011 is likely to produce (already sold to 20 countries, this is a book, its publisher insists, which "has to be talked about"). But, first, have a think. How much more do you want to know? Or, to put it another way, how much more can you take?
There is plenty to unsettle and upset in Tiger, Tiger, not least those sentient adults, seemingly complicit in Peter's crimes in the interests of an easy life. But the most troubling thing by far is the attitude of its author, Margaux Fragoso, who is determined to spare us absolutely nothing, and so details not only every dubious "tickling game", but also such things as the way Peter's penis looks, his fondness for frottage, and the reasons why they were never able to enjoy full intercourse. Is this, as some American critics have politely suggested, a sign of her great survivor bravery? I'm not sure. It felt as blank as pornography to me and the more it went on, the more convinced I was that only a voyeur or a pervert could admire it. Can Fragoso write? Yes. But not so well that you would read her for her style alone.
Inevitably, I've already heard Tiger, Tiger described as "Lolita, from Lolita's point of view". But this is lazy. When Margaux and Peter read Nabokov's novel together, he is upset that "Lolita didn't really love Humbert", a reaction that convinces poor Margaux she can be the best "nymph" ever, as loving as she is loved. Why does she need this love? Because she is otherwise entirely without affection.
The book is set in Union City, New Jersey, where Margaux lives with a mother who is mentally ill and a father who is distant and furious, and it is this home life brutal and mean that drives her into Peter's arms. She sees him at the swimming pool, splashing around, and asks if she can join in. Thereafter, she is smitten. He is so kind. A curious man-child who at first asks very little from her even later, his line when it comes to sexual favours is "only if you want to, sweetheart" Peter tunes into her likes and dislikes with exquisite enthusiasm, with the result that she comes to see him as a soul mate. The unwavering laser of his attention makes her feel wanted and alive. In a prologue to her story, the adult Margaux writes that spending time with a paedophile "can be like a drug high". In her own case, it was a drug she was unable to give up.
All this is beautifully done: a dark door unlocked with the snugly fitting key of experience. But still, something salacious lurks here, too. Why did Fragoso include such graphic intimacies? It seems to me that there are only two possibilities. Either the post-traumatic stress disorder she describes in an afterword has left her so numb, so utterly anaesthetised, that a part of her is still unable to grasp what adult-child sex means in the real world in which case, a kindly editor should have stepped in and saved her from herself.
Or, she knows exactly what she is doing, and a part of her relishes these passages: their power to horrify and, perhaps, their power to thrill, to shift books. Naturally, I am unable to judge her on this score. But reading her memoir made me feel exploitative, prurient and sometimes rather sick. Is this cowardice on my part? No. Contrary to what Fragoso's supporters seem to believe, a desire not to have certain images imprinted on your mind isn't at all the same thing as burying your head in the sand and hoping that child abuse will simply go away.
The psychologist - Oliver James
I will be surprised if many readers of this book enjoy it, find it enlightening or recommend it to their friends. That is not because of the sexual explicitness. Exaggerated by publicity-seeking publishers, the intimate details should not disgust or trouble most adults, although there is more information than we need (Nabokov's restraint in this area remains the standard for how much is required for us to get the gist).
No, the difficulty is really that Fragoso has simply not created a memoir which is compelling to read or contains any deeper message (and I suspect it would have been the same had she told the same tale as fiction). The main emotions it evokes are depression and, occasionally, the feeling of being the voyeur of a lot of domestic nastiness.
A brief afterword offers this justification for the book: "By setting down the memories I've worked to break the old, deeply rooted patterns of suffering and abuse that have dogged my family through the generations." Doubtless this is sincerely meant.
It might be that she was also impelled by a desire to launch a literary career through a shocking idea: that a vulnerable, emotionally needy girl could feel love (though not sexual desire) for a man who sexually exploited her for a decade from the age of seven. Unfortunately, that is all she offers, a no-holds-barred account of the relationship.
In writing books for the public, it is not enough to just make others feel as depressed or empty as you. This is a sorry tale which just makes you feel... sorry. If her motive truly was to break destructive patterns, good luck to her, I hope she succeeded. By all means write it out for herself. Why do we need to hear the story?
The model for how to convert the lead of horrendous maltreatment into the gold of valuable literature is Edward St Aubyn's Melrose books, the final volume of which, At Last), is eagerly awaited in May. Its central character, Patrick Melrose, was abused by his father, a man of appalling sadism and some psychopathy. St Aubyn has stated that his father also abused him in real life.
However, the books go far beyond this maltreatment, subtly exploring Melrose's mother's motives and confronting questions of importance to everyone. They show how all of us are either robotically reproducing or reacting against the care we received. Whether from affluent or poor homes, whether hideously mistreated or just averagely neglected, this is the human predicament. In a triumphant end to the books, St Aubyn provides a moving and optimistic basis for seeking real independent volition. By contrast, Fragoso offers us undigested fact. In being so frank, perhaps she feels relief. But she simply transfers the damaged feeling from herself to the reader.
Of course it is a massive task to do anything else if you have been abused. As the Human Genome Project is proving, genes play little role in severe mental illness, and it is clear from this book that, at times, Fragoso was made schizophrenic by the abuse. There are 14 different studies showing that at least half of people diagnosed with this problem suffered abuse. On average, a woman who suffered it when young possesses 5% less of a crucial part of the brain for emotional regulation (the hippocampus) than an unabused woman.
There are similar findings for maltreatment in the histories of people with personality disorder and depression. But whatever the form that the subsequent emotional distress takes, alas, just evoking it in others does not make for enlightening or readable books.
If writing it all down helped Fragoso to break the cycle, great. But in needing to share it with us in this form, you cannot help feeling she still has much work to do on herself.
Oliver James's latest book, How Not to F*** Them Up is out in paperback
The survivor - anon
Why anyone would read Tiger, Tiger of their own volition is beyond me. When I was invited to review it I did what I think anyone would: shrink internally and shudder. Sexual abuse is a harrowing topic and, as a victim of it, my initial response was to feel culpable and apologetic for the book's existence. I've never read about abuse before: it is something that happened to me that can't be undone and the less I allow it to affect my life and to define who I am the more power I have over it.
As I read it, clenched, I went through myriad emotions: outrage, repulsion, sadness, grief, empathy, anger. The only redemptive feeling it prompted was admiration for Fragoso's unwavering candour: she is a talented writer and her memoir is executed without judgment or shame. But Fragoso's portrayal of herself seems almost completely defined by Peter's idolisation of her. I felt she was objectifying her child self in the descriptions of how imaginative she was and how conscious she was of her sensuality. That Peter has infected her self-image in this way sickened me more than the deeply disturbing graphic sexual content.
At points in the narrative, I felt it was an affectionate commemoration of Peter and a startling study of Stockholm syndrome. Perhaps the most significant thing about it is that every adult in Margaux's life is complicit in her abuse. By telling her story I do think, to some degree, she empowers victims of sexual abuse by forcing the world to bear witness.
But who are these willing witnesses? Who is it written for? Herself, as a cathartic act of self-empowerment? Fellow victims? Paedophiles? Or those people with a morbid fascination for perverts? It is a truly horrible read. As Peter insinuates himself into Margaux's affections, I was in the grip of suspense, awaiting the inevitable abuse of trust. And this is what I found distasteful the sensationalism which will undoubtedly sell many copies.
The real question is whether this book is necessary. Victims shed their victimhood by voicing their experience. I, too, write to cope but I want to create things of beauty that defy the ugliness of abuse. I'm pleased Fragoso has spun her flax into gold, but the cynic in me can't help but feel it was, in part, published to capitalise on the inevitable controversy, thereby continuing the cycle of exploitation.
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If I was putting together a time capsule to try to convey to some future alien society the state of humanity in general, but more particularly here and now in the West at the beginning of the 21st century, this would go straight in. Not the book, which is a matter of complete disinterest to me, but these responses to it.
I love how not one of the three ever considers that Fragoso might be a perfectly sane and reasonable person telling the truth. Anyone who thinks or acts a little differently to how they are supposed to is evidently a nutjob to be pitied and cured by well-meaning interference. Of course, it is to a certain extent Fragoso's own doing - either she should know by now what the reaction would have been, or knows and doesn't give a shit (although why on earth you'd bother writing a book that you know will be systematically and deliberately misunderstood by its entire audience escapes me).
Coincidentally, there's a long piece in todays Graun by Simon Baron-Cohen about empathy. I'm not going to allege that people aren't actually empathetic, just that what they empathise with isn't the Other, it's whatever representation of him their own solipsistic and uninventive mind has come up with. If they're lucky the specific individual in question will actually turn out to conform to whatever mess of stereotypes and received ideas they've decided to pin on to him (and people aren't all that diverse, so I guess it happens most of the time), if not, you've got two people sitting there talking not to each other but each to some mirage that they've conjured up for themselves.
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