Medusa
A few months before she committed suicide in 1963, the American author Sylvia Plath put forward a blurred vision of this mythological figure in ‘Medusa’, which remains one of her most mysterious and widely discussed poems. We invited three authors to compose a response to this poem that would also offer a personal and contemporary vision of the myth. Here you can read the text by Ayşegül Savaş, a Turkish anglophone novelist (White on White and The Anthropologists).
It was on the third day of the journey that I noticed the woman. I had boarded the ship in a solitary spirit; I intended to devote all those hours crossing the ocean to my work. I liked the emptiness of the horizon, the anonymity of the waves—they allowed me to focus inwards, without stealing my attention.
Besides going out to the deck in the afternoons to rest and watch the monotonous landscape, I barely left my cabin. I took my meals quickly, at a small table in the very back of the dining room. The other travelers were mostly older—they were crossing the Atlantic as a sedentary vacation that nonetheless gave them a sense of adventure. I must say that I found their pastime somewhat pathetic; I did not think that I would ever embark on such a journey without a purpose, simply to pass the time.I had decided to take the crossing as a way to cut myself off from the world, to be unreachable, while I dedicated myself to my work. Not that I had too many obligations on land: I did not have a child, I had at best a cordial relationship with my aging parents, whom — for reasons I didn’t dwell on — I didn’t see very often.
I was in the dining room when the woman walked in. So striking was the woman’s resemblance to me that I wasn’t even startled; it felt, rather, like a homecoming. I reveled in the occasion of seeing myself from without, as others must see me, arriving at quick judgments about what sort of person such an appearance must behold. The woman moved through the buffet with purpose and speed, assembling her plate, though her focus was not on the food. Slowly, almost involuntarily, I got up from my table, where I had begun eating, and went up to the buffet. I was drawn to the woman, drawn that is, to my own image. I could not stop looking at her, trying to penetrate her with my gaze.
I stood for a moment, looking around, and picked up another plate on which to place some fruit, so as to give myself something to do. Just then, the woman returned, and to my surprise, picked up a new plate and started filling it, much as she had the first one. When she reached the end of the buffet, where I was standing, she looked at me in order to pass me by, and smiled. I can’t say that I saw any recognition in her face, at least not as I had expected, though her expression was warm, even inviting.
Excuse me, she said. And then she added that the food that evening was delicious.
I agreed, even though I hadn’t paid much attention to it. I thought, for a moment, that she might invite me to her table, but she simply wished me a good meal and walked away.
The following day, I went out to the deck earlier than usual. I had not slept very well, and my work had suffered as a result. I was distracted, my brain was foggy. I lay in bed for a long time, unable to rest. Outside, I looked around for a sign of the woman though the only other passengers were the elderly in their hats and sunglasses, some of them dozing off. I took a seat beside them, having decided that I would waste the hours until lunchtime.
She appeared after some time, and went up to the railing to take in the view. She had not seen me, and I watched her again, as I had the previous evening, taking in the solitary sight of her. I wondered at the melancholy of her figure, which I had at first attributed to her mysterious air. After a while, I got up to join her.
Hello.
Ah! she said, startled. How are you?
This time, I thought I saw a slight recognition pass her face.
A slow day, I said. I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything.
Are you traveling alone? She asked. I hadn’t told her, I realized, that I was on the ship to work, though I had the sense that she somehow knew all of this.
I nodded. And you?
Oh, no. she said. No, I’m here with my mother.
There was something in her tone which suggested anguish. I thought, perhaps, that her mother was sick; I had an idea that this was a last trip, a sort of farewell.
We looked out at the ocean, then down towards the steely body of the ship, our arms resting on the railing. That day, we were both wearing black sweaters.
How nice of you, I said. For some reason, the fact that the woman was traveling with her mother had upset me, as if it were a judgment of my own situation. It was irrational, of course, and I tried to steer clear of the feeling rising up, out of my depths.
It must be lovely to have this mother and daughter time, I offered.
The woman looked at me, a little quizzically.
Almost time for lunch, she said. My mother will be waiting.
We walked together to the dining hall, already crowded, though the service had not yet started. All the passengers looked forward to the meals, which made me think once again that the long journey was just a way to pass the time. For some reason, I suddenly remembered how my mother, still at an early age, had given away all her dresses and coats, her heeled shoes and purses. She had no use for them, she said; just a few practical items were all she needed. It was as if she no longer wanted to be looked at; she did not want to be seen. I’d been appalled at my mother’s decision. It seemed to me that she were announcing her own, imminent death. But I hadn’tprotested, not knowing what I might say. I might have told myself that my silence was meant as a sign of respect, an acknowledgement of my mother’s autonomy, but it now occurred to me that perhaps my mother had told me this in order to elicit a response. For me to say that she was still young; that she should go out more often. Perhaps for me to invite her for a dinner, an outing, even a vacation. It was not impossible that my mother had thrown all of herself away in order to be seen; that is to say, to be seen by me. Whereas I’d decided long ago that I would turn away from her, that I would be different.
I realized that the woman had wandered off, no doubt in search of her mother. I stood a while longer, looking around for her. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my arm, fingers digging into me. An old woman had almost stumbled to my side, and was trying to steady herself.
Of course, I knew immediately who she was.
I thought you’d come back to the room, the old woman said meekly.
I responded that she must have mistaken me for someone, noticing the look of disorientation on her face as soon as she heard my voice.
I’m so sorry, she said, though she didn’t let go of my arm. I thought for a moment you were my daughter.
I escorted her to a table. As I was helping her sit down, I saw her daughter running up to us.
You’re so kind, she told me apologetically. You shouldn’t have bothered. She cast her mother a steely glance.
I was searching all over for you, the old woman told her.
In that short exchange—the daughter’s look and the mother’s plea—I knew that this was not the type of holiday I had envisioned; that the old woman was not sick or dying, but that she was simply in need. And although the daughter had agreed to spend this time with her, she was there out of obligation, nothing more. Her inwards look—what I had supposed solitude or mystery—was nothing more than her frustration, pushed down, down to the depths, almost out of sight, save for the tentacles that managed, in such moments, to reach the surface.
And perhaps it was for this that I’d noticed the woman, had found such a striking resemblance. I had, in her self-containment, in the anger threatening to break out of her, recognized myself.
Ayşegül Savaş (b. 1986) grew up in Turkey and Denmark. She has been published in The New Yorker, The Paris Review and The Guardian, among others. She graduated from the San Francisco Art Institute and now lives in Paris. She is the author of White on White and The Anthropologists, one of Barack Obama’s favourite books of 2024.
picture ayşegül savaş © maks ovsjanikov