Explanatory essays - The Power of Knowle: Essays That Explain the Important Things in Life - Sykalo Eugene 2025

The Portrayal of Women in Different Literary Traditions
Comparative literature and cross-cultural analysis

The Women We Read, The Women We Feel

I’m sitting here, flipping through pages of Madame Bovary and The Tale of Genji, and I’m struck by how women in literature—across centuries, continents, languages—carry this weird, electric weight. They’re not just characters; they’re lightning rods for everything a culture wants to say, or hide, or scream. Emma Bovary, with her restless heart and her suffocating provincial life, feels like she could be doom-scrolling on her phone in 2025, chasing some impossible dream of “more.” Then there’s Murasaki Shikibu’s women in Genji, all elegance and restraint, but burning with these quiet, devastating desires that slip through the cracks of their courtly world. It’s like, no matter where you look—19th-century France or Heian Japan—women in stories are always wrestling with the same cage: how to be human when the world keeps telling you what you’re supposed to be.

I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, but there’s something gut-punching about how these women are written. They’re not flat, not props, but they’re also not free. Emma’s out here making terrible choices—cheating, spending money she doesn’t have, chasing fantasies that don’t exist—and you want to shake her, but you also get it. She’s bored, trapped, and desperate for something real. Murasaki’s women, like Lady Murasaki or Aoi, are different—they’re draped in silk and etiquette, moving through a world of poetry and ritual, but their pain is just as raw. They’re stifled by decorum, their emotions coded into glances and carefully chosen words. I read these books and think: God, isn’t this still us? Aren’t women still navigating these impossible scripts—be passionate but not too much, be ambitious but not threatening, be yourself but only the version the world can stomach?

The Trap of the “Strong Female Character”

Let’s talk about this phrase, “strong female character,” because it’s been haunting me lately. It’s such a cliché now, thrown around like confetti at a literary conference. And yeah, I get it—people want women in books who aren’t just damsels or sidekicks. But the way it’s used, it’s like we’re begging for women to be one-dimensional superheroes, all grit and no cracks. I’m thinking of characters like Jane Eyre, who’s “strong” in that quiet, stubborn way—she endures, she persists, she holds onto her principles even when the world (and Mr. Rochester’s creepy attic situation) tries to break her. But her strength isn’t some Instagramable girl-boss vibe; it’s messy, flawed, human. She’s not “empowered” in that glossy, modern sense—she’s just trying to survive a world that keeps trying to define her.

Compare that to, say, Antigone in Sophocles’ play. She’s another “strong” woman, right? Defying the king, burying her brother, standing up to power. But she’s not a superhero either—she’s driven by grief, by loyalty, by this almost reckless sense of duty. She’s not out here winning; she’s choosing her own destruction because it’s the only way she can be true to herself. I love that about her, but it also makes me wince. Why do so many women in literature have to break themselves to prove their strength? It’s like the only way they get to be “heroic” is by burning out spectacularly.

And then you look at someone like Sethe in Toni Morrison’s Beloved. God, Sethe. She’s not just strong—she’s a force of nature, a mother who’d rather kill her child than let her be enslaved again. That’s not strength as empowerment; that’s strength as survival, as love so fierce it’s almost monstrous. Morrison doesn’t shy away from the horror of Sethe’s choices, but she also doesn’t judge her. She lets Sethe be complicated, wounded, and unapologetic. I read that book and felt my chest tighten, because it’s not just about slavery or motherhood—it’s about what it costs to be a woman who refuses to be owned, even when the world demands it.

East Meets West, and It’s Complicated

Okay, so let’s swerve to something else, because I’m getting a little too intense here. One thing that fascinates me is how women’s portrayals shift across cultures, but also how they weirdly echo each other. Take The Tale of Genji again. Murasaki Shikibu, writing in 11th-century Japan, gives us women who are defined by their relationships to men—lovers, wives, daughters—but they’re not passive. They’re sharp, emotionally complex, navigating a world where power is slippery and indirect. Lady Murasaki, the character, isn’t just Genji’s love interest; she’s a writer, a thinker, someone who sees through the court’s illusions but still plays the game. Her strength is in her subtlety, her ability to wield influence without ever stepping out of her prescribed role.

Now jump to, say, Anna Karenina. Tolstoy’s Russia is worlds away from Heian Japan, but Anna’s story feels like it’s in conversation with Murasaki’s women. Anna’s a woman who dares to want—love, freedom, a life beyond her husband’s cold propriety—but society punishes her for it. She’s not subtle like Murasaki; she’s all fire and impulse, and it destroys her. Reading Anna’s descent, I kept thinking about how both she and Murasaki’s women are trapped by the same thing: the expectation that a woman’s desire should fit neatly into the world’s rules. When it doesn’t, they’re either crushed (Anna) or forced to play along in silence (Murasaki).

What’s wild is how these stories, centuries apart, keep circling the same question: What happens when a woman wants something the world isn’t ready to give? In Western lit, the answer often feels tragic—Emma Bovary, Anna Karenina, even Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter—they’re all punished, one way or another, for stepping out of line. In Eastern traditions, like Genji or even some of the women in classical Chinese poetry, it’s quieter but no less brutal. They’re not always destroyed, but they’re contained, their desires folded into the margins of the story.

Why This Hits So Hard

I’ll be real: I’m not just reading these books for fun. They get under my skin because they feel like mirrors, even now. I think about how women today are still performing these impossible balancing acts—be confident but not arrogant, be vulnerable but not weak, be everything to everyone but don’t lose yourself. Literature doesn’t just show us women; it shows us how we’re seen, how we’re judged. And yeah, maybe I’m projecting, but when I read about Emma Bovary’s reckless dreams or Sethe’s unbearable choices, I feel this pang of recognition. It’s not just about them; it’s about us.

What’s messed up is how little has changed. Sure, we’ve got more “strong female characters” now, more stories about women who kick ass or climb the corporate ladder or whatever. But even those stories often feel like they’re playing to an audience, giving us what we want to see rather than what’s true. I’d rather read about a woman who’s flawed, contradictory, human—someone like Lisbeth Salander in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, who’s brilliant and broken and doesn’t care if you like her. She’s not “strong” in a neat way; she’s a mess, and that’s what makes her real.

The Stories We’re Still Telling

I keep circling back to this: the best women in literature aren’t the ones who win or lose; they’re the ones who feel alive. Whether it’s Antigone’s defiance, Sethe’s haunting love, or Murasaki’s quiet rebellion, these characters stick with me because they’re not just symbols—they’re people. They’re messy, they’re contradictory, they’re caught in the same traps we’re all navigating. And maybe that’s why I keep reading, keep picking up these old books and finding new ways to be gutted by them. They remind me that women’s stories—across cultures, across time—are never just about women. They’re about what it means to want, to fight, to exist in a world that’s always trying to write your story for you.

So yeah, I’m sitting here with a stack of books, a little overwhelmed, a little obsessed. I don’t have a tidy takeaway, and I’m not going to pretend I do. All I know is that these women—fictional, flawed, unforgettable—keep teaching me something about what it means to be human. And honestly? That’s enough.