Name: Middlesex
Rating: 4.171581769436997 (373 reviews)
ISBN: 9788433970107

Jeffrey Eugenides

Benito Gomez Ibanez

Middlesex

Eli Alvah Huckabee

Nature brought no relief. Outside had ended. There was nowhere to go that wouldn't be me.

I could sense the happiness of couples holding first babies and the fortitude of Catholics accepting their ninth. I could feel one young mother’s disappointment at the reappearance of her husband’s weak chin on the face of her newborn daughter, and a new father’s terror as he calculated the tuition for triplets. On the floors above Delivery, in flowerless rooms, women lay recovering from hysterectomies and mastectomies. Teenage girls with burst ovarian cysts nodded out on morphine. It was all around me from the beginning, the weight of female suffering, with its biblical justification and vanishing acts

Sometimes I awoke with the feeling that a spotlight had been trained on me while I slept. It was as if my ether body had been conversing with angels, somewhere up near the ceiling. When I opened my eyes they fled. But I could hear the traces of the communication, the fading echoes of the crystal bell. Some essential information was rising from the depths of my being

Calliope's friendship with a classmate and her sense of identity are compromised by the adolescent discovery that she is a hermaphrodite, a situation with roots in her grandparents' desperate struggle for survival in the 1920s. By the author of The Virgin Suicides.Reader's Guide available. Reprint. 100,000 first printing.

A Novel

ikkychan

In 
 Middlesex
, the themes of identity and self-discovery are tightly woven through intersexuality, gender norms, and Cal’s coming-of-age story. This triad—body, society, and personal growth—anchors the novel’s core tension: How do you become yourself when the world insists you must be one thing or the other? Through a mutated gene inherited from his family’s interbreeding, Cal Stephanides is born with 5-alpha-reductase deficiency, a genetic condition that results in ambiguous genitalia—essentially, growing up without a clear sense of being male or female. Raised as Calliope, a girl, puberty brings out male characteristics, sparking a reckoning between biology and upbringing in shaping one’s identity. The cause is genetic, yes, but the novel shows how this biology is never separate from fate, family history, or cultural inheritance. The mutation isn’t just medical—it’s a legacy, tied to incestuous ancestry and intercontinental displacement. In a dimorphic world that only sees male and female, Cal constantly clashes with these rigid binaries. The transition from Calliope to Cal challenges the deeply ingrained male/female divide, which everyone around him seems eager to enforce. Society’s enforcers—doctors, family, teachers—urge Cal to "choose" a gender, sometimes even before birth, mirroring real-world pressures intersex individuals face. The novel critiques these so-called medical "corrections" and cultural mandates—like invasive surgeries and shame-based conditioning—not as liberating acts but as tools of conformity and control. Cal’s path through adolescence resembles a classic bildungsroman: filled with discovery, rejection, and ultimately a bittersweet form of acceptance. During puberty, he becomes acutely aware of his differences. He sits through psych-ed classes he can’t relate to, watches couples pair off while feeling like an outsider, and sees his female friends proudly embrace their changing bodies while he remains physically "behind." There’s a growing sense that something’s off, but he doesn’t have the capability nor capacity to articulate it. Fate—or, more precisely, a run-in with a tractor—lands Cal in front of Dr. Luce, a specialist who seems poised to offer answers. But this pivotal moment turns traumatic. What’s supposed to be a step toward understanding feels more like a cold, clinical dissection. Luce, blinded by theory and operating from assumptions, handles Cal not as a fragile teen but as a case study. Surrounded by multiple doctors and stripped of privacy, Cal, already introverted in a household full of boisterous loudmouths, is left feeling violated, unseen and completely rejected. If even this doctor can’t accept me, he wonders, what about my friends, my parents, my yia-yia? Traumatized, he runs away—destination: San Francisco. His impromptu road trip is rough. He carefully curates his appearance in an effort to pass, to look the part, but his youth and disorientation betray him. He narrowly escapes harm from so-called Good Samaritans (though if a creepy motel hug counts as harmless, well—at least he’s not Jude St. Francis). After weeks of sleeping in parks and bathing in public fountains, hunger and desperation lead him to work as a peepshow dancer. As bleak as that sounds, it marks a turning point. There, he meets Zora Khyber—who, with Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome, has a female body resistant to male hormones. Despite her feminine appearance, she rejects the female domination and proudly identifies as a hermaphrodite. Zora sees Cal’s fragility and confusion and gently pulls him into a world purposefully and unjustifiably hidden by society’s binaries. She introduces him to the concept of the Berdache among the Navajo, explains genetics and cellular biology, and even touches on Hindu mysticism—all to help him understand himself. For the first time, Cal finds a kind of belonging, a place where he’s not a freak or anomaly, but part of something wider, more complex, and real. In this corner of the world, he’s no longer alone. Zora’s mentorship gives him space to accept his maleness without denying his hybrid self. The journey is both personal—toward self-acceptance—and universal: a search for a place to belong. This is where Eugenides threads together the novel’s major themes: body, society, and growth. Adult Cal, narrating from a reflective distance, blends myth, science, and memoir, showing that identity isn’t fixed—it’s a story we write, rewrite, and inherit. As Cal toggles between past and present, the family gene mirrors family secrets, connecting identity not just to DNA but to legacy. His body refuses classification, demanding a redefinition of self that pushes past what society offers. The concept of “Middlesex” itself stretches far beyond Cal’s condition—it embodies hybridity and in-betweenness on multiple levels. The Stephanides family hovers between Greek heritage (Orthodoxy, Smyrna trauma, diaspora intimacy) and American assimilation (Detroit suburbs, capitalist dreams, accents scrubbed clean). Desdemona clings to her old world traditions, frequently butting heads with Lefty and later Milton, who are more than willing to shed the past. Their tensions reflect the novel’s ongoing state of cultural and generational transition. Even the family house—named Middlesex—is an architectural metaphor for the novel’s core ideas. Its design is a blend of futuristic ambition and outdated trends, creating a kitschy sci-fi fantasy that now, counterintuitively, feels out of place. Frank Lloyd Wright’s open spaces, Japanese minimalism, and horizontal lines awkwardly coexist with suburban Detroit’s conservative tastes. The house has "doors" that are really just pneumatic barriers—flexible, not solid—rejecting binaries just as Cal does. Its chaotic design, strangely enough, mirrors the family’s genetic chaos. Milton may have been drawn to it subconsciously, sensing in its mismatched stone blocks and prairie views the disorder in his bloodline. Even its location matters. The house sits on the edge of Detroit—neither fully urban nor fully suburban. It straddles the line, much like Cal, suspended between Greek and American, male and female. Its landscaping aims for "harmony with nature," but the mulberry trees and weeping willows can’t disguise the artificiality—just as Cal’s social roles never quite fit. The house becomes a microcosm for the novel’s central paradox: the need to belong in a world obsessed with clear categories, while actual existence is often ambiguous, in flux. Middlesex is the perfect name for this story—a symbol of how life happens in the liminal spaces. In the end, Middlesex suggests that all identity is hybrid: shaped by genes, culture, chance. Cal’s intersexuality becomes the visible metaphor for the deeper human truth that we’re all made of contradictions—between past and present, nature and nurture, fate and choice. Borders, whether national, gendered, or moral, are illusions. Life doesn’t settle in fixed points; it thrives in the “in-between.” P.S. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Eugenides harbors a slightly uneasy—or even disagreeable—view of intersexuality, as if he sees it as inherently broken. Toward the end, he references how domesticated silkworms can no longer metamorphose on their own: <blockquote>“.....So I can’t possibly finish up this section of my life without mentioning the following fact: The most widely raised type of silkworm, the larva of the Bombyx mori, no longer exists anywhere in a natural state. As my encyclopedia poignantly puts it: ‘The legs of the larvae have degenerated, and the adults do not fly.’”</blockquote> To me, the impaired adult moth feels like a metaphor for Cal—stunted in his ability to fully mature into either of society’s accepted binaries. As if he’s reached a point of self-awareness, but remains unable to truly “fly” in a world that doesn’t make room for the in-between.

Ho impiegato un tempo enorme per terminare questo libro. Ma non è stata del tutto colpa mia. Ho avuto da fare e un libro del genere va letto nel momento giusto. Quello del mio trasferimento per gli studi è uno. La storia ricorda il sapore delle ricerche di parole sconce sul vocabolario, molto retrò, molto precisa, ma quasi fredda nel trattare gli argomenti. È un bel libro, forse all'inizio non si capisce perché l'autore prima di parlare di sè narra i sua nonna, ma questo tassello è fondamentale a lettura conclusa. La stella mancante è dovuta ad alcuni passaggi che mi sembrano un'eccesso di dovizia nella descrizione. Ho detestato solo il tratto in cui sono riportati i discorsi al Tempio che ascolta Desdemona. Ma forse è solo la mia antipatia verso la filosofia.

Sarah Sammis

I was interested in Cal's story, especially at that point where he began to realize he wasn't exactly a she and how he grew to adulthood with this knowledge. This book BARELY covers any of that aspect of the story. Instead it is bogged down in the history of Cal's whacky relatives. This novel could have been a tight, interesting, and compelling story of about 200 pages, rather than this cliche filled and bloated 500 page behemoth.

Dangling a silver spoon over her daughter-in-law's belly, Desdemona confidently predicts that her next grandchild will be a boy. But a rogue pair of chromosomes, descended from the slopes of Mount Olympus, will survive war, bootleggers and heartbreak to finally unite in Calliope Stephanides - a baby girl who upsets all the odds. Growing up in Michigan, Calliope is the bearer of a family secret that turns her into Cal, the narrator of this intersex, inter-generational epic.

Eugenides’ best work by far, makes Virgin Suicides look like a rough draft and turns Marriage Plot into fan fiction (which, let’s face it, it is). So many capital letters and dense paragraphs I really struggled to get through, looking things up, rereading so very many sentences. The dialogue was neat and genuine. The medical terms expansive and long.

The Eugenides triangle is complete! I am free! Please send me more books to read. :)

Eugenides’ best work by far, makes Virgin Suicides look like a rough draft and turns Marriage Plot into fan fiction (which, let’s face it, it is). So many capital letters and dense paragraphs I really struggled to get through, looking things up, rereading so very many sentences. The dialogue was neat and genuine. The medical terms expansive and long.

The Eugenides triangle is complete! I am free! Please send me more books to read. :)

Francesca Starecheski

I am quite upset by this novel. Jeffrey Eugenides is certainly a gifted author, so much is evident in his ability to unite a single plot across three generations of characters. In reading this book, I was not educated enough on the intersex experience to gauge the accuracy of Eugenides' portrayal. I presumed that the recount of struggles was genuine, for only an intersex or transgender author should write so candidly about their trauma in exploring identity. Not so, unfortunately. Jeffrey is a cisgender male, attempting to reflect an oppression he has never known through entirely separate experiences that felt convenient to him, as redefining cultural identity. The primary reason that this is troubling is that this author did not attempt to amplify the intersex voice in the slightest. He neglected to interview intersex individuals in his research for fear of spoiling his creative vision. 
Furthermore, Eugenides took inspiration from intersex author Herculine Barbin, and altered her portrayal to his own satiation. Though her traumas resulted in her death by suicide, Eugenides described her story as overly dramatized, and claimed that it did not have enough focus on the intersex genitalia. Many of his tropes further intersex stereotyping, and he has ultimately turned society's gaze on an entire community of widely misunderstood individuals towards himself, silencing intersex voices on a grand scale. Authentic intersex titles to be read in the stead of a highly invalidating daydream such as Middlesex would be XOXY by Kimberly Zieselman, Born Both by Hida Viloria, Intersex (For Lack of a Better Word) by Thea Hillman, or The Spectrum of Sex by Hida Viloria and Maria Nieto.

faye

stellar prose to accompany striking characters that you can't help but love (or at least feel some sort of begrudging affection for). it unfortunately did get tedious at times in its attempt to emphasize the intricacies of family interaction, but overall a book that holds so much presence. expansive ethnic family sagas are always close to my heart. note that the book is less about cal and more about his family!

Jeannette Ordas

This book took a long time for me to get through. While I was reading it, I enjoyed it, but it wasn't something I had to quickly run to whenever I had the chance. It didn't stick in my head nor did I wonder about the characters when I wasn't reading. That changed about half-way through when the Callie started going through puberty. Only then did I find the story gripping and interesting and wonder about the book while I was doing the dishes or walking through Chinatown. Maybe because I love YA novels that when Callie was smitten with the Object, I was too. It took me a month to get through the first half and only a day to get through the rest. 4 stars it is!

Anna Brunner

Sonja H

The story is much better than I expected from the title, but I can't concentrate on the slow going family history right now.

This was really great.

I loved the plot. I empathized with Cal/Callie on so many levels throughout the book, with their dysphoria and experiences with other girls and guys. Jeffrey Eugenides' writing style is one of my favorite that I've seen so far, and I'll definitely be looking into more of his books. I want to write like that.

This book is kind of outdated with language/terminology and cissexist at times, but that's most probably just a product of how the world has changed since its publication. I didn't read too much into it, but I would caution against people who try to use this as a basis for information on the intersex or trans communities. The terminology used in this book is usually considered offensive nowadays. 

Highly recommended

Flavia Louise

4.5 stars
This book was very much not what I thought it would be but I really ended up enjoying it for what it was. However I found the end to be a bit rushed and abrupt.

Middlesex

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