Anna Metcalfe’s Chrysalis deliberately reworks aspects of Han Kang’s The Vegetarian. Like Kang’s novel it’s divided into three parts in which the same, nameless woman is viewed from different angles. Metcalfe touches on concerns that frequently surface in discussions of strands in contemporary western society: from the role of social media influencers and fandom to the wellness and self-sufficiency industries through to transactional relationships, narcissism and voyeurism. Each of her narrators is witness to an aspect of the nameless woman’s transformation from floundering, and possibly traumatised, to seemingly-invulnerable colossus. Two of these three are people who’ve met the woman as an adult, Elliot with whom she has a brief sexual relationship and Susie her former work colleague, the third is her mother Bella.
Elliot is a slightly unnerving character, aspects of his behaviour and his fascination with the woman reminded me of Frederick in John Fowles’s The Collector - possibly intentionally since both books deploy imagery related to metamorphosis and butterflies. Elliot’s account feigns objectivity and detachment but it’s clear he’s deeply invested in the woman from the moment he first spies her at a local gym. Elliot’s self-obsessed, socially-awkward and reclusive yet prepared to disrupt his everyday rituals for a chance to be close to the woman. But the woman’s more bent on physical transformation than personal connection. Like Elliot, the woman’s mother Bella has intentionally chosen relative isolation. She’s also ambivalent about the woman, an apparently challenging child whose disturbing bodily tremors proved inexplicable to the medical and other practitioners they frequented in search of a cure. Bella views her child from a distance, more caught up in her work as an artist than the process of parenting. But she’s confused too about her daughter’s mercurial qualities and capacity for reinvention, as well as what either of them actually wants from each other. Then there’s the conformist Susie, lonely and drifting, the woman’s brief stay in her apartment provides a direction and purpose she’s been seeking. For Susie this woman is a possible role model, someone to emulate as much as she is someone to nurture.
There were moments when Metcalfe’s intense, introspective narrative felt almost annoyingly slick and manipulative, but sometimes it took on a near clinical feel. That sense of the clinical chimes with the territory she’s exploring as well as her characters’ relentless dissection of their unnamed subject. Alongside an underlying commentary on narrative itself, Metcalfe raises interesting questions about identity especially the idea of a finished, authentic self; as well as probing the fragile boundaries between self and others. She’s particularly adept at dealing with ambiguities, in each of the interactions with her unnamed woman it’s difficult to discern whether these are relationships grounded in mutual or one-sided exploitation or based on fantasy and projection borne out of each individual’s unfulfilled desires – the narrators’ recollections are often far more revealing of the observers than the observed.
The woman at the centre of the novel’s hard to pin down, at once fearful and fearless. As she assumes control of her body, her increasing physical power is accompanied by an equally powerful personal philosophy – or maybe that’s an impression that’s equally dependent on the fantasies of others. But for many, her desire for strength and stillness, almost tree-like, appears to represent the perfecting of life as art. A stance that offers up a vision of an organic self that clearly appeals to the growing band of followers drawn to her online presence. Many of whom seem to be seeking a blueprint for how to live. For the woman part of this process of change, and later promotion of solitude, may be founded in childhood trauma and then her experiences while living with an abusive man. Interestingly this element of her journey is the least developed perhaps because it offers a solution that’s too clearcut, a form of narrative closure Metcalfe’s clearly not prepared to entertain. Overall, I thought this was a well-crafted, full-length debut, and although it could be curiously static, it was sufficiently intelligent and intriguing to hold my attention.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Granta for an ARC
Rating: 3.5