I/SHE ?

What struck me the most in this book is how often Bombal shifts the narrative perspective. At first, I thought it was just a stylistic experiment, but the more I read, the more it felt like something much deeper. The constant switching between first person and third person narration doesn’t feel random at all. Instead, it feels like Bombal is showing how a woman keeps losing and only briefly regaining her sense of self. It’s almost exhausting in the same way the protagonist’s experience is exhausting.

Whenever the first person “I” shows up, it usually feels very intimate. These moments are tied to the protagonist’s inner world, her memories, emotions, fears, anger, and desires. In these sections, she finally feels like a real person instead of just a role. She’s not someone’s wife, daughter,or a woman being watched and judged. She’s just herself, thinking and feeling. But the frustrating part is that this “I” never lasts long. Just when it feels like she’s starting to exist fully as a subject, the narration slips back into the third person. She becomes “she” again, someone being looked at, described, and defined by others.

This back and forth felt really familiar to me, because it mirrors how women often experience the world in real life. When a woman is alone with her thoughts, she can exist as a full subject. But the moment she steps into social space, the moment she becomes visible, that visibility turns her into an object. Other people’s expectations, judgments, and gazes take over. The novel’s constantly interrupted rhythm creates a strong sense of fragmentation. It’s not that the protagonist has no sense of self, but that her self is never allowed to stay intact. It keeps getting interrupted, overwritten, and pushed aside.

What unsettled me even more is that this doesn’t stop after her death. She loses the ability to act, but her consciousness actually becomes clearer. The first person “I” appears more often, and she finally reflects on her life, her marriage, her family, and love on her own terms. At the same time, though, the third person perspective doesn’t disappear. Her body is still watched, talked about, and claimed by others. Even in death, she can’t fully escape being narrated.

By the end, what really stayed with me is the idea that women don’t automatically get to occupy the position of “I.” Subjectivity isn’t something that’s simply given, it’s something that has to be fought for again and again. And even then, it’s fragile, constantly at risk of being taken away.