The Chaos Art

Dans le Jardin de l’Ogre, Leila Slimani

Ayda Duru Demirtaş

In her novel Dans le Jardin de l’Ogre (In the Ogre’s Garden), Leila Slimani portrays Adèle, an upper-middle-class bourgeois woman living in Paris, who only feels alive when she is desired—when someone is looking at her. Slimani writes: “She is hurt and bitter. Tonight she does not manage to exist. Nobody sees her, nobody listens to her.” Adèle’s world is a representation of solipsism. However, while solipsism as a philosophical idea posits that the self is the only reality, and anything outside it may or may not be real, in Adèle’s world, only men truly exist. Her existence is realised solely through their gaze and desire. She becomes a painting to be contemplated, viewed, and exhibited. Without being the centre of men’s attention, she loses her sense of worth:

“It is not men she fears, but solitude. No longer being looked at by anyone, being unknown, anonymous, a pawn in the crowd.” (“Ce ne sont pas les hommes qu’elle craint mais la solitude. Ne plus être sous le regard de qui que ce soit, être inconnue, anonyme, être un pion dans la foule.”)

As extreme as this example might seem, it reflects a broader condition faced by women who have not recognised or challenged this issue. While many of us may not directly experience the existential crisis of feeling invisible without the male gaze, we are often conditioned to base our value on male approval—whether consciously or not. This is our social reality, and we are usually unaware of how it affects our autonomy.

I do not intend to analyze the male suffering caused by patriarchy in depth here, but it is important to note that while the “male gaze” overwhelmingly benefits men and oppresses women, it can also amplify men’s agony. In Slimani’s novel, Richard, upon discovering that his wife—his love, the mother of his child—has been cheating on him with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men since the beginning of their relationship, finds himself utterly lost:

“Richard says nothing. He has no one to confide in. No one whose gaze he could bear, looking at his face as a cuckold, a naive husband. He doesn’t want to hear any advice. Above all, he doesn’t want to be pitied.” (“Richard ne dit rien. Il n’a personne à qui se confier. Personne dont il pourrait supporter le regard, sur son visage de cocu, de mari naïf. Il n’a envie d’entendre aucun conseil. Il ne veut surtout pas faire pitié.”)

Here, we see another layer of oppression. While women in the novel lack autonomy, men like Richard possess it to the point of absolute solitude: they have no one to trust, no one to truly understand them. Richard loves his wife; he wants to provide for her and idealizes her. But while she is far from the woman he imagined her to be, both are trapped in a cycle of oppressive norms:

“He had promised her that she wouldn’t have to take care of anything and that he would look after her like no one ever had before. She was his neurosis, his madness, his dream of the ideal. His other life.” (“Il lui avait promis qu'elle n'aurait à s'occuper de rien et qu'il prendrait soin d'elle, comme personne d'autre avant lui. Elle était sa névrose, sa folie, son rêve d'idéal. Son autre vie.”)

Richard’s tragedy lies in the role of the provider, which leaves him empty and isolated when his idealized life crumbles. With no one and nothing to turn to, he is left to face the void. This reflects the broader tragedy of bourgeois life: the relentless need for conformity and the shattering of illusions when people fail to meet idealized expectations.

We can question Adèle’s reasons and intentions in marrying Richard, knowing full well that she would never be able to remain loyal to him. We can judge her, berate her, demonize her, dehumanize her. We certainly won’t like or empathize with her while reading this novel—I, for one, didn’t. However, it is crucial to acknowledge her need to conform to societal expectations:

"Adèle had a child for the same reason she got married: to belong to the world and shield herself from any difference with others. By becoming a wife and mother, she wrapped herself in an aura of respectability that no one can take away from her." (“Adèle a fait un enfant pour la même raison qu’elle s’est mariée. Pour appartenir au monde et se protéger de toute différence avec les autres. En devenant épouse et mère, elle s’est nimbée d’une aura de respectabilité que personne ne peut lui enlever.”)

Adèle, while being an exaggerated allegory of sexual and mental oppression for women, is also a human being. To exist in society, she feels compelled to abide by its rules. She believes that by acting like others—by pretending to be “normal”—she might somehow become normal:

"She had told herself that a child would heal her. She had convinced herself that motherhood was the only way out of her distress, the only solution to abruptly end this forward escape." (“Elle s’était dit qu’un enfant la guérirait. Elle s’était convaincue que la maternité était la seule issue à son mal-être, la seule solution pour briser net cette fuite en avant.”)

This idea is deeply familiar. Haven’t we heard this formulaic reasoning repeated countless times before—from our mothers, aunts, grandmothers, in books, films, and television? Yet, the notion that becoming a mother will somehow “cure” a woman of her struggles is not only oppressive and insulting—it is profoundly untrue.

Women do not become “whole” by giving birth, as if their sole purpose in life is to bear children, with nothing else to offer the world. Childbearing is a biological capability, but not having children doesn’t render women unempathetic, rude, or soulless. If that were true, would men—who cannot bear children—be considered these things? Of course not. A cruel or unkind person, regardless of gender, remains so whether they have children or not. Similarly, a kind and accomplished woman remains herself, with or without children. While people naturally evolve over time, having children does not fundamentally alter who they are at their core.

Slimani underscores this truth in Dans le Jardin de l’Ogre through Adèle’s experiences. After Richard discovers her secret life and begins to control her actions, Adèle cuts herself off from her previous world—her friends, her job, her city. She retreats to the countryside, conforming to the life of a housewife. When her father dies, she attends the funeral alone and reconnects with her friend Lauren. Upon hearing about Adèle’s choices, Lauren asks:

"You're making the biggest mistake of your life. Why did you go bury yourself out there? Are you happy as a housewife in your provincial manor?" (“Tu fais la plus grande erreur de ta vie. Pourquoi es-tu allée t’enterrer là-bas? Tu es heureuse en femme au foyer dans ton manoir de province?”)

Adèle, in an uncharacteristic moment, lashes out. She mimics Richard’s tone, parroting the very words and phrases he would use:

"You know, as long as you don't have children, you can't understand. I hope that one day you'll see what it feels like." (“Tu sais, tant qu’on n’a pas d’enfants, on ne peut pas comprendre. J’espère qu’un jour tu verras ce que ça fait.”)

Adèle knows that her words are untrue and dehumanizing. They diminish women without children while simultaneously reducing the worth of mothers to their role as child-bearers. Yet, to maintain her facade, Adèle feels compelled to conform, to pretend, to play the part of a “normal” woman.