Margaret Atwood's short story "Lusus Naturae" presents a compelling exploration of identity, not as a fixed state, but as a fluid concept shaped by external perception and internal struggle. The unnamed protagonist, ostracized and feared due to her perceived monstrousness, undergoes a profound journey from societal rejection to a hard-won, albeit isolated, self-acceptance. This transformation is not a simple return to normalcy, but a radical redefinition of self in the face of absolute alienation, achieved through a conscious embrace of her perceived otherness.
The initial depiction of the protagonist's existence is one of utter seclusion and judgment. Confined to a dimly lit room, "swaddled in rags," and subjected to the villagers' superstitious fear, her identity is entirely constructed by their gaze. They call her "the beast," a "lusus naturae"—a freak of nature. This external labeling dictates her very existence, preventing any possibility of genuine human connection. Her family, complicit in her confinement, reinforces this imposed identity, treating her as a dangerous secret rather than a person. The narrative highlights how societal prejudice can effectively erase an individual's selfhood, reducing them to a symbol of fear and abnormality. Her only companions are the "foul creatures" that share her confinement, further emphasizing her separation from humanity and her immersion in a world of the monstrous.
However, the story subtly shifts as the protagonist begins to internalize and then actively manipulate the perceptions of her captors. When the priest and the doctor visit, she strategically employs the very behaviors that confirm their fears. She growls, she hisses, she makes herself appear more hideous than she might actually be. This isn't a passive acceptance of her fate; it's an active performance designed to maintain her isolation and, paradoxically, her safety. By embodying the monster they expect, she forces them to retreat, preserving the fragile sanctuary of her room. This strategic performance marks the beginning of her agency. She is no longer just a victim of their projections; she is controlling the narrative, albeit from within its confines.
The turning point arrives not with external validation or rescue, but with a profound internal shift. As she observes the world outside her window, she begins to see the villagers not as a monolithic force of good, but as flawed, fearful beings themselves. Their rituals and beliefs, once sources of her confinement, now appear as desperate attempts to impose order on a chaotic world. This realization allows her to detach from their judgment. Her eventual escape, or rather, her departure from the house, is not a flight from oppression but a deliberate stepping out into the world on her own terms. She doesn't seek to rejoin society; she seeks to exist independently of it. Her transformation culminates in her choosing to remain in the woods, becoming a figure of folklore, a creature of the night.
This final state is not one of triumph in the conventional sense. She remains alone, still a figure of fear. Yet, there is a palpable sense of peace and self-possession. She has shed the illusion of belonging that was never truly offered. Her acceptance of her identity is not about being loved or understood by others, but about acknowledging and embracing the entirety of her being, including the aspects that society deems monstrous. The story suggests that true self-acceptance can arise from the ashes of rejection, a radical reclamation of identity forged in solitude and defiance. Atwood doesn't offer a comforting resolution of integration, but a stark, powerful statement about the possibility of finding peace within oneself, even when the world insists on seeing you as an outsider.