Books: “Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit” by Jeanette Winterson

The ‘Jeanette’ in the novel was adopted so that her mother can fulfil her destiny as the second Virgin Mary. And while she is happy serving her religious calling, Jeanette comes to an impasse when her priest, mother, and congregation make her choose between God and the woman she loves. The over-zealous characters are at once funny and lamentable. It is Jeanette, who puts the question: whose demon do we feed – our own or that of others?

Winterson writes in her forward, that due to both title, and bias of at the time, the book was found at bookstores in the cooking section, specifically under – jam making. And while it isn’t about marmalade, there is beautiful repetitive imagery and symbolism of the orange. The peeling of the skin to get to the fruit, then the sharing of its meat, which you do by hand, not by knife. I loved the orange demon – not evil, but there to help you know what you want. I loved how through the book it was always oranges. No other fruit, no other way. Until choosing to live with her ‘demon’ – and suddenly its canned pineapple in every dish from ham roasts to pineapple slices.
Maybe the book was about making sweet from tart after all.

I loved “Oranges” for its simplicity and honesty. There was no fancy plotline like in “Gut Symmetries”, but it is at once clear, that the intertwining of folklore, children’s stories, religion, and physics, so unique to Winterson, started here – in her debut novel.

There are certain books I will remember more for the circumstance in which I read them, rather than for the book itself. “Dune” because I read it at 17, the same age my mother did. Henry James’ “A Portrait of a Lady,” I read during the lead up to my wedding. Then Margret Atwood’s “A Handmaiden’s Tale,” I read while soaking weightless in a lukewarm bath while pregnant. Looking back now, it is as if the books were called upon at the exact moment it needed to be read. This novel will join such ranks. At the time of reading, I was staring into the gap between external expectation and internal wishes. We do that collectively, protesting for better social justice. That is noble. But when wanting more for yourself – well that is selfish, and cliched (at my age it’s called a ‘mid-life crisis.’). And it’s definitely scary. But at any stage of life, there is a momentum behind a path; without realizing, you are on autopilot. It’s not silly, or selfish. It takes courage to choose the unexpected.  

I could have been a priest instead of a prophet. The priest has a book with the words set out. Old words, known words, words of power. Words that are always on the surface. Words for every occasion. The words work. They do what they’re supposed to do; comfort and discipline. The prophet has no book. The prophet is a voice that cries in the wilderness, full of sounds that do not always set into meaning. The prophets cry out because they are troubled by demons.

The training of wizards is a very difficult thing. Wizards have to spend years standing in a chalk circle until they can manage without it. They push out their power bit by bit, first within their hearts, then within their bodies, then within their immediate circle. It is not possible to control the outside of yourself until you have mastered your breathing space. It is not possible to change anything until you understand the substance you wish to change. Of course people mutilate and modify, but these are fallen powers, and to change something you do not understand is the true nature of evil.