Why Is 'The Pisces' Considered A Feminist Novel?

I see 'The Pisces' as feminist because it flips the script on traditional romance. The protagonist Lucy isn’t chasing love to complete herself—she’s already a whole person, flaws and all. Her messy, raw journey through dating and self-discovery doesn’t apologize for female desire. The novel embraces female sexuality without making it cute or palatable; Lucy’s attraction to the merman is primal, irrational, and unashamed. It critiques how society pathologizes women’s emotions—her therapy group labels her 'love addict,' but the story frames her hunger as human, not hysterical. The ending rejects the fairy-tale rescue, leaving her powerful but alone, which feels radical for a love story.

'The Pisces' dismantles patriarchal expectations with surgical precision. Lucy’s academic career stalling over a thesis on Sappho isn’t accidental—it mirrors how society undervalues women’s intellectual labor. Her breakdown isn’t framed as weakness but as rebellion against performative femininity. The merman symbolizes the impossible standards women face: eternally beautiful, emotionally unavailable, demanding devotion while giving little.

What’s groundbreaking is how Broder portrays female rage. Lucy’s intrusive thoughts about stabbing her ex aren’t sanitized; they’re laid bare as the collateral damage of emotional labor. The sex scenes are feminist manifestos—she prioritizes her pleasure, even with a mythical creature. The novel’s true brilliance lies in exposing how 'self-help' culture gaslights women into fixing themselves instead of critiquing systems that break them.

Unlike 'The Handmaid’s Tale,' this isn’t allegory—it’s a visceral, darkly comic exposé of modern dating as emotional warfare. For deeper dives, try 'Eat Only When You’re Hungry' for another unflinching look at addiction and agency.

As someone who’s studied feminist lit for years, 'The Pisces' stands out by rejecting empowerment clichés. Lucy isn’t 'strong'—she’s selfish, obsessive, and sometimes pathetic, which makes her revolutionary. Broder weaponizes female awkwardness; scenes like Lucy drunkenly Googling her ex’s new girlfriend aren’t played for laughs but as portraits of genuine pain. The merman isn’t a romantic interest—he’s a mirror forcing Lucy to confront her own loneliness.

The novel’s structure itself is feminist. Flashbacks of Lucy’s toxic relationship aren’t linear; they intrude like traumatic memories do. Her sister’s perfect marriage isn’t the antagonist—it’s shown as another kind of cage. Even the setting (Los Angeles) critiques capitalist feminism—Lucy’s therapy costs $200 an hour while her merman lives freely in the ocean. For fans of this raw style, 'Animal' by Lisa Taddeo explores similar themes with sharper teeth.