I had previously viewed recorded interviews with Leïla Slimani, and she seemed to value her privacy, choosing not to divulge too many personal details to her interviewers. In one particular video she playfully confessed to the interviewer that she believed that lying was part of exercising one’s freedom. She even admitted that she had told a little untruth during their conversation.
Leïla Slimani. Courtesy of Catherine Hélie, Gallimard via opale.photo
The interviewer was caught off guard. This clip amused me, and I appreciated Leïla’s sense of humour. This was a woman who was a non-conformist, refusing to be confined by societal expectations or behaviour norms. I set out to discover how she crafted the characters that had left a lasting impact on me. Women who do not speak much of the darkness that looms inside them, but who couldn’t resist acting on their desires. As our conversation unfolded, Leïla spoke with great passion about the driving forces behind her writing, making it a captivating journey to delve deeper into her creative work.
Born in Morocco and raised in France, Leïla’s life experiences, cultural influences and her own personal journey have found their way into her storytelling. In her work, she explores the dark and often subversive internal life of women. Her writings have not only garnered critical acclaim but have also ignited crucial conversations on women’s roles, societal expectations and individual identity.
In our discussion, we delve into Leïla’s understanding of how the city serves as a canvas for exploring the intimate and the taboo. To her, the urban landscape has the capacity to liberate our desires, whereas the personal home might confine them.
Abbie Boutkabout: You’ve probably answered this question so many times, but how did you become a writer? Maybe it’s more appropriate to ask you when your characters started to haunt you.
Leïla Slimani: I would say that the first fictional character that came to me was myself. As a teenager, I created my own character. Like a lot of teenagers, I wanted to please. I wanted to seduce, I wanted to be popular, so I created a persona. When I lived alone in Paris at the age of seventeen, I would buy cheap clothes at vintage stores. I would create a very eccentric look, and a character. Every day I would wander through the streets of Paris imagining that I was someone else.
Abbie: Were you trying to escape reality, or was it something else?
Leïla: Yes, I thought that life should be bigger than what it was. It was also about being a woman. My mother and my grandmother were very elegant women, especially my mother, whom I admired so much. Every morning she would put on a new dress and have make-up on. She was a doctor, a very chic one, so when she came home from the hospital she would get dressed to go out with my father. Perhaps I had this idea that being a woman also meant you had the possibility to disguise yourself. By wearing certain clothes and changing the way you look you could invent yourself every day.
Abbie: Your novels frequently feature morally complex and ambiguous characters. How do you approach the creation of such characters and what draws you to explore the darker aspects of human nature in general in your storytelling?
Leïla: I believe that every character, not just the ones I create, possesses a level of moral ambiguity and complexity because I see this complexity as inherent to all human beings. While some writers decide not to explore the darkness of a character, I choose to shine a spotlight on what’s typically hidden.
We all have a dark side, and we’re all capable of doing strange things. We can all be monsters, and we can all be saints. I’m always wondering if it is possible to be truly moral. Can one be a genuinely good person? It’s an exploration of the human condition that continuously intrigues me.
Abbie: I recently read Adèle (2014). In the book, the titular character is a journalist. She is a wife and a mother and appears to lead a perfect life. But at night she indulges in a series of increasingly destructive sexual encounters. Is the erotic in your work used to indicate an object of longing and desire, or is it used as a social critique, or maybe even as a political instrument from a female perspective?
Leïla: I don’t really think that my books are necessarily erotic. Or if they are, it’s more in a melancholic, dark way. Adèle is suffering because she wants everything around her – the world, the city, the people – to be erotic. She wants to feel something, she wants her desire to be aroused. But at the same time she feels that something is lacking. The fantasies she has in her head are much larger than reality. Therefore, she has to put great effort into creating this eroticism – especially in her marriage, as she understands that being a married woman also means experiencing a very dull and sad sexual life with her husband.
For me, eroticism is a way to talk about a certain kind of disappointment. For the majority of women, how we should be excited and how we should enjoy sexuality is already prescribed. You’re supposed to accept a certain eroticism that is not meant for you. It’s an eroticism created for men. I think a lot of people are not aware of how dark, complex and mysterious female sexuality and eroticism actually are. In that regard, eroticism in my books is more of a political instrument.
…However, sexuality is a completely different field that needs an alternative perspective. On a sexual level, one may desire things that remain absent from their everyday life…
Abbie: Yes, I wanted to add that, indeed, Adèle is not an erotic book. It’s not meant to arouse us.
Leïla: When I wanted to write this book, I was interested in the fact that nowadays everyone tells you that as a woman your desire should be to be strong and independent. I understand that this comes from feminism, empowerment and emancipation. As a woman, you should want to make decisions about your own life. However, sexuality is a completely different field that needs an alternative perspective. On a sexual level, one may desire things that remain absent from their everyday life. Adèle doesn’t want to be empowered. She doesn’t want to control her life. She wants to be an object, a doll. She wants to be desired; she wants to be controlled. We view this as something very subversive. As strong women, we’re not supposed to express this desire. Despite this, sometimes women just want to be an object.
Abbie: And maybe we express our desires differently depending on the spaces in which we move, which you explore with the tension between public and private spaces in your work. This tension relates to the characters’ erotic experiences within the city where they roam – using the city of Paris as a backdrop for Adèle’s sexual exploration and her inner turmoil, for example.
Leïla: In Lullaby (2016) as well as in Adèle, we could say that the house is a prison for women. It’s described as a place where there is no real possibility to express oneself. And the outside world feels frightening and dangerous. It is so for Adèle, but also for the character of Myriam in Lullaby, because she is going to leave her children in someone else’s care. But these women desire the outside world, they want to go outside to find out who they are. They feel that if they stay home they will never know themselves. They will be trapped and forced to be the kind of women they don’t want to be. The perfect wife, the perfect mother, the obedient woman. These women are dealing with this tension between the inside and the outside. The idea that inside you will be protected but a prisoner, while outside you will be in danger but free.
Abbie: What I like about living in a city is the ability to engage in urban voyeurism. I can spy on people and use them for inspiration. Sometimes I get to witness very intimate situations. You grew up in Rabat, you moved to Paris and now you live in Lisbon. Do you also find inspiration in the city?
Leïla: Yes, and I strongly relate to what you are saying. I’m obsessed with urban voyeurism, and I love this expression. I adore spying on people and listening to them – I would say that’s my main inspiration. One day I was in New York walking, and there was a woman just ahead of me. She was speaking on the phone, and I understood she was talking to her mother. She was telling her mother how difficult her relationship was with the man she was with. I followed her for an hour or so. She decided to go have a drink, and so I sat at the table next to her to listen until the end of the conversation. I really love listening to people talking. I observe them because, in the end, they turn into my passion.
Abbie: Perhaps we can also look at the link between eroticism and violence in Adèle. We talked about this earlier: sexuality in that book is not tender. It’s not performed as an act of love. I found it mechanical, cold and violent to some degree, but at the same time feverish. It didn’t feel as if Adèle wanted to achieve satisfaction, but rather something else. Why did you write these supposedly intimate scenes in such a way?
Leïla: That’s how I felt Adèle was experiencing sex. It’s very strange when you’re writing a novel and find yourself forming such a strong relationship with your character. In Adèle’s case, our connection was undeniably strong. I genuinely feel that I know her intimately, and she’s a character who continues to dwell within me to this day. I love her deeply and I understand her. I’ve always known that she can’t feel anything. She hopes that one day someone will reach out and she will start feeling something. However, the problem is her tendency to blur the lines between the emotional emptiness in her heart and the physical numbness she experiences. She confuses the body and the soul, making her ultimately cold from within.
I don’t give an explanation, but every reader can discover their own interpretation. It may stem from a childhood trauma or some other source entirely. I’m not really interested in answering this question. What I know is that life is extremely boring to her and nothing truly resonates with her. Maybe she believes that, through a particular violence and this rough eroticism, she might eventually begin to experience some sort of emotion or sensation. Even if that feeling proves to be unpleasant or terrible, it would still be a sensation, and that might be better than nothing.
Abbie: You once said that it’s impossible to tell the story of Morocco without employing sensuality. Sex and Lies (2017) delves into hidden sexual lives – how does the cultural backdrop of Moroccan cities play a role in the experiences and desires of the women in the novel?
Leïla: I believe one of the most significant transformations within Moroccan culture occurred when the French left in the 1950s. At that time, about 80% of Moroccans resided in rural areas. Today, the situation has reversed, with some 70% of the population living in cities. This shift has had a profound impact on the lives of the people who live there, particularly women. In urban environments, women now have access to a range of opportunities. They can enjoy a level of anonymity, escape the confines of their homes to a certain extent, enjoy an education and engage in cultural activities. Experiences that may have been challenging, if not impossible, to access in rural settings.
But the shift towards living in the city also brings with it certain dangers. In large cities, women are exposed to increased risks such as harassment, violence, rape, prostitution and pornography. Unfortunately, in Morocco, particularly in impoverished neighbourhoods, these issues are very common. Many people reside in small, cramped houses where several family members share just one or two rooms. There is a lack of privacy, secrecy and no possibility for intimacy. I believe that female emancipation requires access to a private space if they want to live as free women. This personal space is crucial for the ability to dream, explore their sexuality and meet others.
Sexual intercourse outside of marriage is strictly prohibited. When two people want to meet to have sex, they have to plan it. They need to secure a private room and make arrangements, often involving the discreet payment of someone willing to provide such a space. They can’t meet in a hotel room, so they will have to pay someone discreetly. What’s particularly troubling is that this process lacks spontaneity. In these organised encounters, the woman often finds herself with a limited agency. If, for any reason, she decides she no longer wants to sleep with the man, she might face pressure from him. He could argue: ‘I paid for this room, and now we’re here to have sex.’ This power dynamic can be deeply problematic.
If a woman becomes a victim of sexual assault in this context, she doesn’t have the possibility to go to the police for help. Reporting the crime could lead to her own arrest, as the authorities might question her presence in the apartment with a man and her involvement in sexual activity. This situation highlights the ambiguity that urban life presents for women. For some women, living in the city offers the chance to create a life of their own. They may eventually rent an apartment and gain a sense of independence. However, the price they pay for this independence often involves social marginalisation and being unfairly stigmatised as a ‘whore.’ On the other hand, city life also poses significant dangers for many young girls, especially those from poor suburbs.
…There is elegance and refinement in the way everyone is inventing their public character, but in the dark they can reveal their authentic selves…
Abbie: What I found interesting after reading the stories by the women in Sex and Lies, and from my own experiences, was that there are two layers of life that seem to exist in Morocco. On one hand, you have the public morals, by which everyone must abide. And then there is this other layer of morals that just sits underneath the surface. It’s a life that happens at night, or in the darkest corners of the cities. How is your own personal experience in that sense?
Leïla: I visit my friends in Morocco all the time. The majority of my friends are gay or lesbian, so I observe this double life regularly. When we venture outside, they have a certain public life. I’m not implying that they hide their sexuality, but they refrain from openly acknowledging it due to the social restrictions and potential risks. However, at night, when we gather in a safe, private place, it’s an entirely different life. They can express themselves. We dance, we talk about everything and we feel free. That doesn’t mean that we are all the same when we are in this safe place. It’s extremely diverse, with people from different backgrounds and all sorts of beliefs about life, religion and the world. As you said, there are layers to people’s lives here.
In a way, I despise it, because it’s a life of lies and hypocrisy, and you’re always sensing some kind of danger. However, on the other hand, there is a certain beauty to it. It’s hard to explain, but life is so complex, and you never know everything about someone. It takes time to know who the person in front of you really is. There is elegance and refinement in the way everyone is inventing their public character, but in the dark they can reveal their authentic selves. It might stem from something that I strongly dislike, but the way people navigate this complexity just amazes me, and I admire them greatly.
Abbie: And do you feel that since Sex and Lies came out there has been a shift in mentality towards women and sexuality in Morocco?
Leïla: Absolutely, women have always found their unique ways to claim their freedom, engage in sexual relationships and express their love. Amidst these pursuits, many have also grappled with harrowing experiences, including clandestine and prohibited abortions, as well as the terrible ordeals of rape and domestic violence. However, today, especially after the release of my book and the emergence of other literary works, graphic novels, movies and TV shows on Moroccan television, a profound conversation has been unfolding. Women are raising their voices, and it’s not limited to the younger generation alone. Older women understand the fact that certain aspects of their lives, which they previously tolerated, are no longer acceptable. They are recognising their right to communicate this change to their husbands and sons. It’s evident that change is underway, although it may take time.
Abbie: You once said, ‘Where there is a woman, there is politics.’ I’d like to apply that phrase to what is happening in France right now. Women, in this case visibly Muslim women, are not allowed to wear the hijab when working in public administration. By the way, this is also the case in Belgium, where I live. In France, female Muslim athletes are not allowed to wear a hijab during the Olympic Games. Girls in schools are not allowed to wear long dresses. Isn’t this the same issue as in Muslim countries where women are told to hide their bodies? In both cases it is state-sanctioned policing of women’s bodies and how they move in public spaces. What are your thoughts on that?
Leïla: I’ve been thinking about that a lot, trying to understand the complexity of the issue. France and Belgium are quite exceptional, since they are the only countries forbidding the hijab in public administration. I was in Norway a couple of weeks ago. When I arrived at the library of Oslo, I was welcomed by a young woman, half Norwegian, half Moroccan, and she was wearing a hijab. She was so kind, she welcomed everyone and was fond of literature. I thought to myself: this would never be possible in a library in Paris.
For me, the distinction lies in what happens within and outside of schools. I can understand the vision of laïcité [the principle of seeking to conduct human affairs based on naturalistic considerations, uninvolved with religion]. The French believe that there is no room for religion or political views in classrooms, and that everyone should be equal. I can understand this idea. I’m not shocked by it, because I think it’s better for children to be schooled in a place where they can think for themselves, rather than just following what their family believes. The problem arises when people pursue laïcité because they have an issue with Muslims.
I used to believe that Muslims, particularly Muslim women, were accepted. But I’ve since been proven wrong. Some argue that the restrictions aren’t rooted in racism and aren’t targeting Muslims, but, rather, they’re driven by a concern for gender equality. However, I would like to point out that in the UK and Norway they also prioritise gender equality, but without adhering to the concept of laïcité. Therefore, I might be more accepting of the restrictions if I could see that they were genuinely aimed at helping women integrate, which unfortunately doesn’t seem to be the case.
It’s as if you have a house and it’s collapsing, but everyone is obsessed with the colour of the door. And I’m thinking: why do you care about the colour of the door? We have bigger issues to tackle. Take care of unemployment, poverty, integration, teaching French to migrants. We have so much to do.
Abbie: Speaking of language, some writers from Morocco refuse to write in French, because they feel it’s not their language but that of the former oppressive power. As President Macron’s personal representative for the promotion of the French language and culture, what are your perspectives on the significance of language and the various emotions it evokes?
Leïla: I think it’s always a mistake to ideologise a language. French is my language, it’s the language of my parents. Many languages were used to colonise and do terrible things. You could say that about English, German or any other language having colonial history. You can murder people in French and you can bring freedom in French. You can judge people and you can judge politics, but a language is meant to write poetry, seduce people, love and communicate. The more languages you speak, the more you are human.
People in Morocco are all multilingual. They speak Arabic, but they also speak French. Sometimes they speak Spanish or Hassani. For the future generation, I think it’ll be an extraordinary asset to be able to speak so many languages; they are really gifted when it comes to learning another language.
Abbie: You write with such eloquence. I’m curious about your approach to writing and your creative process. I wonder how you balance the exploration of taboo and eroticism in your narratives without becoming too sensationalising? Does it come naturally to you?
Leïla: I would say that it comes naturally without necessarily thinking too much about it. I write alone, but I’m not always alone. I have people who read and help me out throughout the process. I also have a close relationship with my publisher, whom I trust and listen to. It’s important to keep an open mind, and I always try to be open to critical feedback.
Abbie: Your writing often challenges conventions, or let’s say a general understanding of desires and relationships. How do you see the role of literature in general as a way to push boundaries and encourage readers to question societal norms?
Leïla: It’s very interesting that you’re bringing this up, because a couple of weeks ago I received a touching letter from a reader. He happened to be a conservative Catholic, and fell in love with a Muslim woman. He held some rather strong views – he was against gay marriage and abortion, and had certain fixed notions about women, among other things. However, his girlfriend left him and he wanted to win her back, so he decided to read my books. As he read through Sex and Lies, Adèle and The Country of Others (2020), it was as if a new world had opened to him, one that shed light on the experience of being a woman, especially one coming from a Muslim country.
He wrote that he could never again pass judgement on a woman who had gone through the experience of abortion. Reading my books had given him insight into the immense difficulty of that situation. He confessed that his perspective on homosexuality had shifted as well. When I read his words, I was deeply moved. It struck me that this is precisely why I do what I do. There are moments when you’re wrestling with the challenges of writing, wondering why you’re working so hard. You question whether anyone is reading or even cares.
However, this letter was a reminder that our words have the power to change a person’s point of view, or that they can at least understand that another point of view exists. Honestly, it was such a touching experience to read that letter, and it only fuelled my desire to keep writing.