52 pages • 1 hour read
Yangsze ChooA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
For the women in The Fox Wife, feeling safe in one’s environment is often a negotiated compromise. Women must navigate bodily autonomy and manage the immoral—and often male-coded—societal expectations placed upon them. For example, the bookkeeper’s granddaughter has had to deal with a dangerous society from a young age—so much so that Choo intimates a loss of innocence in the unnamed girl’s childhood. As the girl explains to Bao, she understands the nature of doing business in the pleasure house: “[The girls are] brought in by men. Mostly good-looking ones who buy women from rural areas. That’s why I don’t plan on marrying a handsome husband” (202). The bookkeeper’s granddaughter grasps how marriage can lead to dehumanization, unpayable debt, and misery. She is forced to remain on guard with the men around her and places her trust in something amoral but reliable: money. For her, money becomes a potential shield. It represents what she lacks in a society that would see her as an object to pleasure men. As she explains to Bao, “If you don’t have money, you get sold” (202). She proves herself to be a keen observer of her environment. Her predicament indicates the wariness and compromise that a young girl must endure to feel safe in her own body.
Tagtaa’s mother attempts to secure autonomy for her daughter. As the offspring of a Mongolian concubine, Tagtaa’s bodily autonomy and independence are tied to her bloodline and the state of her feet. Though little can be done about her parentage, Tagtaa’s mother is able to secure some freedom for her daughter by going against Han Chinese tradition and keeping Tagtaa’s feet unbound. Binding the feet of young girls (typically aged four to six years old) is of such cultural importance that even Bao remarks how “[n]o Han Chinese of good standing would marry a girl with unbound feet. This is the only way her Mongolian mother could exert some influence on her daughter’s fate” (137). Here, foot binding becomes both literal and metaphorical—the practice literally restricts women’s movement while also restricting their opportunities and social status.
In this sense, it is ironic that letting Tagtaa’s feet grow freely does not guarantee her freedom. While she might not be appealing to the Han Chinese marriage market, having unbound feet does not allow her to marry whomever she wants. Bao, being Han Chinese, is inaccessible to her because she is a concubine’s daughter and her feet remain in their natural state. As the narrative relays, “In that moment, he also realizes why his own mother permitted their childhood friendship to continue. Nobody has ever been under any illusion that Tagtaa could be a fit wife for Bao” (137). Additionally, not modifying Tagtaa’s feet does not save her from the cultural practice of an arranged marriage. Rather, she is simply sent to Inner Mongolia to marry her relative. When the match fails, she is promised to a much older man as his fourth wife. Through Tagtaa, the novel shows how women of this era often compromised their bodies for a modicum of autonomy and a sense of imperfect safety with their partners.
One of the main plot arcs is Snow’s monumental effort to avenge her infant daughter’s senseless murder. While Snow commits to her journey to find Bektu and kill him, Choo intimates that doing so erodes Snow’s personhood, values, and self-worth. Despite the well of grief and rage that has consumed her for the past two years, Snow is still self-aware. This can be seen through her choice of words when describing her intent: “[M]y investigation (that sounds so much better than words like ‘revenge’ and ‘blood debt’)” (17). She knows that committing murder is morally reprehensible—no matter how much pain someone has caused. This signals how her actions are at odds with her ethics and personality. Prior to losing her child, she had, after all, been seeking enlightenment with Kuro on a thousand-year journey.
The novel suggests that one unethical choice—Snow’s intent to murder Bektu— leads to others. Pursuing her vengeance has led Snow to steal (clothing and food); deceive multiple people (including Tagtaa and her household); exert her influence over men to extract information, money, and means of travel; and sow discord (such as at the pleasure house, among the Bohai’s friends, and between Shiro and Kuro). As Snow comes to realize by the end of the novel, “I had set out to avenge my child, but I’d done so in a willful, fox-like manner, not so different from Shiro after all” (392). The admission is a damning one, as Snow considers Shiro to be a wicked creature. While she cares for him, she considers him to be the worst iteration of a fox’s stereotyped nature and character.
The novel suggests that revenge alienates a person from their character and beliefs. It entails compromising one’s behavior and values, and the sacrifice is not worth it. Even with Bektu dead (though not by her own hand), Snow does not experience the cathartic resolution she yearns for: “His death hadn’t resolved anything; I wasn’t miraculously happier. Instead, it raised all sorts of painful sensations, a gnawing recognition that no further blood spilled would ever console me for the loss of my child” (277). Rather than providing an end to her grief or justice for her daughter’s death, Bektu’s demise leaves Snow with a numbing emptiness. It does not right the world for the wrong committed against her and her family, nor does it allow her to move past her grief. Revenge has only made her stagnate in her despair. It has propagated a cycle of death.
Foxes in the novel are not homogenous, though they do share defining traits: They live long lives, though are seemingly not immortal, and are mystical and powerful, but they are far from impervious. Choo’s foxes are largely liminal creatures that are not quite human, not quite animal, and not quite spirit. Much like the grasslands that live between urban spaces and the wild, Snow, Shiro, and Kuro are beings who are peripheral, existing on the margins. Choo suggests that should a fox come to be defined, it harbingers their death.
Choo illustrates this through Kuro’s scar. His scar is too singular to go unnoticed and will inevitably make him memorable to humans. As Shiro tells Snow, “Kuro is probably finished […] because of the scar on his face. You know he won’t survive long like that. He’s too recognizable” (343). Snow doesn’t question this or hope for a different outcome. For creatures like foxes, who have routinely been purged and hunted throughout the ages, having a defined identity is to invite death.
Foxes abhor anything that allows them to be tracked. Legal documentation of any kind—such as that needed for a trip to Japan—leaves a trail that a savvy detective such as Bao can use to trace their movements. For this reason, foxes must exist illegally. As Snow explains, “[M]ost foxes are terrified of bureaucracy since we’re undocumented vagrants” (112). They use their intelligence to travel and thrive. Snow and the others have regularly sojourned between Asian countries during their long lives. They speak multiple languages, such as Japanese, Mandarin, Manchurian, Mongolian (in Snow’s case), Korean (in Shiro’s case), and other dialects.
For foxes, photographs are dangerous. For example, Bektu’s photograph of Snow allows Bao to follow her footsteps from Mukden to Dalian and to find her when she returns to Dalian from Japan. When it comes to photography, Shiro acts out of character and proves himself to be the more cautious fox. According to Bektu, “Shirakawa [Shiro] has never permitted anyone to take his picture” (225). Though Shiro is often reckless with how he exploits the humans around him, even he recognizes that foxes must remain on the margins to survive.
By Yangsze Choo