Fiction – paperback; Penguin Modern Classics; 192 pages; 2023. Translated from the French by Barbara Wright.

First published in France as Zazie dans le metro in 1959, this novel by Raymond Queneau is regarded as a classic of French modern literature.

Critics and reviewers laud its playful use of language, its comic absurdity and its feisty, foul-mouthed female lead — an 11-year-old girl from the country who spends three days in Paris, under the care of her uncle, running amok.

While it’s known for its humour, what struck me most was the darker undercurrent: the threat of male violence that permeates nearly every page.

Because of that, I couldn’t help but read Zazie and the Metro through a feminist lens. On the surface, it’s a madcap, absurd little novel about a sharp-tongued girl tearing through Paris while trying (and failing) to ride the Métro. But underneath all the surreal humour and wordplay is something darker — and far more unsettling.

A man’s world

Zazie experiences constant sexual harassment and is very much attuned to the behaviour of “sex maniacs” (as she dubs them) as she goes about her business. She’s wise enough to know she can make accusations against men which will protect her. When a man tries to stop her from running away, she screams for help, and then tells a woman who comes to her rescue that “this meussieu, he said dirty things to me” (page 27).

In one flashback, she even recalls how her own father (before he was killed by her mother) desired her in an unhealthy way.

[…] he starts pawing me (wolf whistle), so I’d said ah no, not that, never, he flings himself on to the door and he locks it and puts the key in his pocket and he rolls his eyes and he goes aha just like they do in the movies, it was terrific. (page 47)

You are what you wear

Zazie isn’t your typical child character. She’s brash, foul-mouthed, talks back to adults and is totally unwilling to be controlled.

She wears blue jeans (or “blewgenes”, as she calls them) like a suit of armour — a gift from a man with questionable intentions, bought at an American surplus stall. They feel symbolic: a rejection of traditional femininity and an assertion of autonomy — a way of being aware of her body and its power.

In 1950s Paris, a little girl in jeans wasn’t just casual — it was rebellious. Zazie isn’t trying to be cute or agreeable. She’s trying to survive.

And she has reason to be wary. There’s the aforementioned “pawing” by her father. Then there’s her mother’s boyfriend, Georges, whom she says:

“started making passes at me. So Mamma just said that well really she couldn’t kill the lot of them, it would begin to look a bit funny, so she slung him out, she deprived herself of a loved-one for my sake. Don’t you think that’s decent? Don’t you think she’s a good mother?” (page 48)

These moments of trauma, mentioned in such an oh-so-casual manner, are buried under layers of absurdity and conversations rife with swear words. No adult ever takes her seriously. She’s constantly dismissed, talked over or belittled.

In many ways, this is what makes Zazie so compelling — she’s loud because no one’s listening. Her defiance is a form of resistance. Her humour is a shield. And her toughness, especially for a girl so young, is clearly hard-won.

A feminist character

But she’s also aware of her power — or at least learning to be. Yet the line between her self-awareness and the way she’s sexualised is uncomfortably thin.

Zazie was looking at herself in the mirror and drooling with admiration. Talk about suiting her yes you certainly could say the blewgenes suited her. She ran her hands over her little buttocks which they fitted like a cross between a glove and a dream, and sighed profoundly, completely satisfied. (page 56)

Did Queneau set out to write a feminist character? I don’t know, but Zazie reads like one. She doesn’t fit into the roles assigned to her, and she doesn’t want to. She’s an unruly girl in a world that wants her to be silent and sweet, but she refuses to behave as she’s expected to.

It’s telling that the one man Zazie feels safe with is “Unkoo” Gabriel — “It seems with him I’ve nothing to be afraid of” (page 49). Despite this trust, she keeps asking her married uncle, a cross-dressing dancer who’s continually filing his nails, if he’s “hormossesual”. He denies it, but she won’t let it go, even bringing it up with other people.

Here’s a conversation she has with a woman who is in the audience about to watch Gabriel come on stage in his tutu:

“What exactly is it, a fairy?” Zazie asked her affably, as woman to woman. “A pansy? A queen? A pederast? A hormosessual? Are there little differences?” (page 120)

Witty repartee

Of course, there’s more to the book than Zazie’s encounters with dubious men — her Aunt Marceline also has to contend with a would-be rapist, showing that no female was safe in so-called “gay Paree”!

But it’s also about French society, still recovering from the aftermath of the Second World War, and trying to reconcile tradition with the demands of modern life. It’s set during a Metro strike and includes a cast of adult characters who all love to drink, socialise and bicker.

There are funny scenes involving tourists that Gabriel is showing around (I won’t mention the casual racism) and a talking parrot, Laverdure, who can only say one phrase, repeatedly: “talk, talk, that’s all you can do”.

Zazie and the Metro is chaotic and funny, full of wit and clever wordplay, but underneath the farce lies a deeply uncomfortable truth — one that reminds us how early girls learn what the world expects of them, and what it might take to survive it.

The book was adapted for the screen in 1960. I’ve not seen it and am not sure I want to.

In 2025, I’m trying to read as many books as possible from my TBR. This is #11. I purchased it from my local independent bookstore, New Edition, early last year.