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Frances tends to believe people that she falls in love with are more powerful than her. Both Nick and Bobbi are conventionally attractive and wealthier than she is, which she conceives of as forms of power. This is not entirely inaccurate, but she errs in believing she has no power within these dynamics. The only way she can get some power back, in her mind, is to avoid vulnerability through emotional detachment. This is part of what lies behind Bobbi’s declaration that Frances has no “real personality.” Frances, of course, does have a personality, but she rarely lets people see it fully, and she comforts herself with the knowledge that she has an unrevealed secret self when she feels hurt. When she and Nick break up for the final time, she narrates, “I thought about all the things I had never told Nick about myself, and I started to feel better then, as if my privacy extended all around me like a barrier protecting my body” (275).
Withholding outright declarations of affection is her power; neither Nick nor Bobbi feel that they understand her inner life at all. When she and Nick are still together and he is trying to understand her feelings about the fact that he having sex again with Melissa, she accurately surmises that the best way to hurt him is to act as if she has no feelings about the news whatsoever. She thinks to herself, “People were always wanting me to show some weakness so they could reassure me. It made them feel worthy, I knew all about that” (262). Indeed, this is one of the reasons Bobbi is so angry when she reads Frances’s short story. The fact that Frances kept the story a secret is hurtful, but even more so is the fact that Frances kept all the feelings in the story secret, writing them down for public consumption rather than sharing them with Bobbi herself.
Adding another layer to the irony and detachedness with which Frances approaches any relationship in her life is the larger background of the political ideology to which the four main characters subscribe. All are highly educated people who enjoy debating weighty topics like the meaning of art, white privilege, and capitalism. Because they take these ideological concerns so seriously, they can sometimes feel absurd taking their own personal concerns, which seem to pale in comparison, with sincerity. For this reason, all four are guilty of some degree of relying on ironic detachedness, even if Frances is the only one who considers it a core strategy for navigating relationships.
The major flaw with Frances’s strategy of ironic detachment is that it may give her some of the power she craves, but it also destroys her relationships. Bobbi is so hurt to find that Frances wrote all her feelings in a story for strangers to read rather than saying them aloud that she temporarily cuts Frances out of her life. Similarly, Nick grows so convinced that he cannot please Frances because he never understands what she wants that the two break up. In the breakup scene, he says to her, “You seem so upset with me and I don’t know how I can make you happy” (274). Rather than save the relationship by finally explaining her feelings to him candidly, she suggests they break up on the spot. Because Frances does eventually write a meaningful apology to Bobbi that leads to a reconciliation, readers can hold out hope that she is learning the ineffectiveness of this strategy. Whether she ever manages to improve upon it with Nick is left for readers to speculate.
Frances’s affair with Nick contradicts the kind of person she wants to be in the abstract in almost every way. Frances and Bobbi both are bored and irritated by centuries-old social scripts about love and relationships. However, Frances’s relationship with Nick is the enactment of one of the oldest stories in the book: the younger, financially precarious woman embroiled in an affair with the older, financially stable man who has no intention of leaving his wife. The fact that the details which describe her relationship could also describe hundreds of traditional love stories grates on Frances, the young iconoclast who has previously told Bobbi that she is “anti-love” because “capitalism harnesses love for profit” (174). If having an affair with an older married man is not damaging enough to Frances’s sense of individuality, she then must contend with predictable feelings of jealousy. “What I seemed to want,” she thinks, “was for him to renounce every other person and thing in his life and pledge himself to me entirely,” but she adds that she “didn’t like to believe” herself capable of such trite emotions (265).
Nick is not eager to play his role in the cliché either. Neither Nick nor Frances fully notices how their age gap looks to the rest of the world until Melissa finds out about the affair and is specifically disturbed by the age difference. She wonders if Nick has a sexual inclination toward very young women in general—maybe even girls who are still minors. The reader sees no signs that this is true, but Melissa’s suspicions remind both Frances and the reader that to the rest of the world, she and Nick are two people with large differences in experience, wealth, and power. This message gets reinforced to Frances when Bobbi tells Frances’s friend Philip about the affair and he responds by telling her, “I didn’t think you would let someone take advantage of you like that” (204).
This tension that Frances feels between her abstract ideological commitments and her lived experience with Nick is an inescapable part of growing up. Anyone can hear a philosophy in a college course and decide they want to internalize it. The more difficult step is sticking to that philosophy in the face of life events that threaten to compromise it, or to realize that life is nuanced. Frances and Bobbi are both highly intelligent and curious, but intelligence and curiosity are not the same as experience, and the friends find out that all their intelligence does not shield them from having to go through the same destabilizing experiences as anyone else. Rooney’s point is not to narratively scold Frances for hypocrisy or to show that holding on to noble ideological beliefs is hopeless in the “real world.” Rather, she communicates that the process of testing ideological beliefs and figuring out which ones are important to one’s personhood is a part of the transition to adulthood. It can even, as Nick and Melissa show, be an ever-evolving process that continues throughout life.
Throughout the novel, Frances often must figure out what kind of relationship she wants to have to her own femininity in jarring and sudden situations. When she is diagnosed with endometriosis, the doctor tells her this condition carries an increased risk of infertility. Rooney does not make clear in that moment whether Frances had any desire to be a mother before receiving this news. However, days later when she attends Nick’s birthday party and holds his baby niece, she suddenly feels overwhelmed and panicked. The diagnosis forces her to consider whether she is disappointed, relieved, or some other emotion that her chances of pregnancy are now reduced. Even prior to the diagnosis, she witnesses the troubling reality that male health professionals often dismiss women’s concerns. At her initial ER visit, her doctor acts vaguely miffed at her when he thinks she has had a miscarriage, and when that is ruled out, he shares no comforting words, possibilities, or pain management strategies to help her navigate the months until her ultrasound.
In another scene that takes up only a page of the novel but has a haunting effect, Frances is on a Tinder date with a sexually aggressive man. She begins the date open to the possibility of sex but determines partway through that she is not interested. When he initiates sex, she signals her disinterest by laying completely still, clearly not an eager, enthusiastic participant. But he ignores her corpse-like pose and continues his advances. In that moment, she must decide whether to struggle or just endure the unwanted sex. Making a quick calculation, she estimates that he is likely not to listen to her if she tells him to stop, so she would rather not do so. She makes the strategic choice to avoid seeing herself as a “victim” by declining to voice dissent; she therefore avoids establishing the legal conditions for rape. She avoids taking on the identity of a sexual assault survivor by choosing not to see the situation as sexual assault, but this raises questions about the nature of consent.
Lastly, despite her pretense of invulnerability, Frances has deep insecurities about her body shared by most women who grow up in contemporary Western society’s unrealistic beauty standards. When she suffers romantic disappointment, therefore, she takes it out on her body. After her breakup with Bobbi (which happens in the novel’s past), she stands in a shower so long that the water begins running ice cold and she must talk to a paramedic on the phone about how to treat the hypothermia she has accidentally induced. After her final breakup with Nick, she is certain that Nick has grown tired of her appearance in comparison to Melissa, even though the real problem is miscommunication and irreconcilable hopes for the future. As a result, Frances cuts a hole inside her thigh with a pair of nail scissors, accidentally creating a bigger wound than she intends that bleeds a frightening amount. While she often acts above such universal feelings as hating her own body, she experiences them acutely, albeit silently and privately.
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By Sally Rooney