The scorpion

In Short

A candid, introspective novel following the life of Myra, a girl raised in a stifling, rigid household. Branded as a social pariah due to her temperament and "evil reputation," Myra drifts through a series of intense, often painful relationships with other women. Seeking authenticity in an era that forces her to live in the shadows, she eventually confronts the necessity of self-preservation. The narrative survives as a rare, early-twentieth-century depiction of lesbian experience, noted for its psychological depth and its refusal to offer easy moral judgments on its protagonist’s struggles.

The Story

The narrative begins with a retrospective view of Myra’s childhood, a period defined by emotional deprivation and a series of minor rebellions. Raised in a cold, high-ceilinged home by an aunt whose "bony fingers" symbolize her repressive upbringing, Myra is already viewed as a deviant—prone to theft and perceived as incorrigible. Her father, a man of sensitive nature, views her with a mix of distance and fear, while her uncle, George, openly views her existence as a misfortune. Myra herself is haunted by the death of her mother, clinging to a fantasy of maternal love that she believes would have saved her from her trajectory of misery.

As Myra matures, her life becomes a series of departures and attempted connections. She is drawn to women who share her temperament, most notably the enigmatic Olga Radó. Her attraction to Olga is all-consuming, a central pivot around which her world turns. When Olga disappears, Myra is left in a state of aimless wandering, haunted by "the scorpion"—a metaphor for the stinging, destructive nature of her desires and her social isolation. She spends her days in a state of suspended animation, observing the world from park benches and shop windows, waiting for a signal or a return that feels increasingly unlikely.

The emotional climax occurs when Myra decides to break free from her family’s control. In an act of desperate autonomy, she steals money from her uncle’s desk, an act that is less about greed than about securing the means to reach Olga. Her flight is fraught with the terror of pursuit, yet it is also a moment of profound transformation. She declares her independence, consciously choosing her own path despite the inevitability of social scandal. When she finally finds herself in Olga’s orbit, she experiences a fleeting sense of rebirth.

However, the reality of their connection is volatile and fleeting. Olga, complex and mercurial, represents both an anchor and a source of profound instability. Their intimacy is marked by brief moments of intense clarity and long stretches of misunderstanding. Eventually, the cycle of loss continues. Myra learns of Olga’s death through a mutual acquaintance, Peterkin, a revelation that forces her to reconcile with the total absence of the person who gave her life meaning. In the final movement, Myra enters a wider, more bohemian circle of artists and drifters. She moves through these spaces—dizzying, smoky ballrooms and quiet, lonely apartments—with a sense of armor-like detachment. She realizes that her survival depends on her ability to endure solitude and to navigate the "beautiful and terrifying monster" of her own desires. The novel ends not with a resolution of her search for love, but with an acceptance of her own resilience.

How It Unfolds

The legacy of judgment Myra is defined by the harsh, external perceptions of her family, who view her as a thief and a failure. This early reputation forces her into a defensive posture that she carries throughout her life.

The shadow of an ideal Myra’s longing is anchored in a romanticized version of her dead mother. This internal void makes her susceptible to the intense, idealized bonds she later forms with others.

The impulse to escape Driven by a need for autonomy, Myra steals from her uncle to fund an exit from her repressive home. This crime is a turning point that separates her from her past.

The reunion and the rupture Finding Olga offers Myra a brief window of freedom, yet their connection is marred by emotional instability and the inevitable pressure of the world. Their brief time together is shadowed by the reality of their precarious position.

The final confrontation Myra faces her family and the authorities, refusing to retreat from her identity. This rejection of their control is her most decisive act of self-assertion.

The aftermath of loss Following Olga’s death, Myra must learn to inhabit the world alone. She transitions from mourning into a state of weary, observant survival among new, bohemian acquaintances.

The evolution of perspective Myra concludes her journey by viewing life as a performance. She finds a kind of peace in her own invulnerability, preparing to face whatever new impressions the world offers.

The People

Myra is the story's heart, a woman who spends her life trying to reconcile her internal desires with a society that refuses to acknowledge them. She evolves from a defensive, rebellious girl into a weary yet resilient adult who learns to value her own capacity for survival above external validation.

Olga Radó is the catalyst for Myra’s emotional awakening. Beautiful, enigmatic, and impulsive, she lives life with an intensity that both draws Myra in and keeps her at a distance. She is the embodiment of the freedom Myra craves but cannot sustain.

Uncle George represents the rigid, judgmental world of the bourgeois. His resentment toward Myra serves as the primary obstacle to her growth, forcing her to choose between conformity and theft.

Peterkin acts as a gentle, stable presence in Myra’s life. He serves as a bridge, helping her navigate her grief and providing a sense of companionship that is free from the destructive volatility of her other attachments.

Gisela is a fellow wanderer who mirrors Myra’s own sense of alienation. Her presence in the latter half of the book forces Myra to confront the darker, more suicidal aspects of her own despair, ultimately strengthening her resolve to live.

In Its Own Voice

"Frankly, I desired to make Myra’s acquaintance because of her evil reputation."

The narrator begins by admitting a morbid, pre-existing fascination with the protagonist, highlighting how Myra is defined by society long before she is known as a person.

"She had a fantastic notion of what a mother is, and believed that her own mother’s premature death was the cause of all the misfortunes in her life."

This sentence underscores Myra’s psychological reliance on an idealized, absent figure to explain her own complex feelings of displacement.

"I will live in order to learn to love death. Perhaps that is why we have to live. And perhaps that is why we have to suffer."

In the novel’s closing, Myra finds a grim, philosophical justification for her ongoing struggle, framing her endurance as a form of intellectual pursuit.

What It's Really About

The central theme is the development of an authentic identity in the face of systemic erasure. The book asks whether it is possible to live a meaningful life when society pathologizes your very existence. It examines the nature of desire as both a source of liberation and a "stinging" burden, much like the titular scorpion. Through Myra’s journey, the text argues that self-knowledge is a painful process that requires stripping away both societal expectations and the destructive fantasies we use to protect our fragile interiors. Ultimately, the book posits that true survival is found in the ability to stand alone and acknowledge one's own indestructible, albeit scarred, spirit.

Why Read It Today

Reading this work today is a journey into the quiet, interior life of a woman who was considered "impossible" by the standards of her time. Its prose is remarkably clean, avoiding the melodrama one might expect, and instead focusing on the heavy, dragging reality of loneliness and the fleeting, incandescent joy of connection.

Modern readers will likely appreciate the psychological acuity of the writing. The book does not shy away from the darker, more unsettling aspects of Myra’s character, nor does it attempt to turn her into a saintly figure. She is flawed, sometimes impulsive, and often deeply confused, which makes her struggle for self-definition feel profoundly human and current.

Be aware that the translation reflects the period in which it was produced—1932—and the language carries the sensibilities of that era. There are moments of stiff, formal dialogue and references to social hierarchies that may feel distant. However, these elements act as a historical window into the stifling environment Myra must navigate. It is a book for those who value character-driven narratives that privilege introspection over plot-driven fireworks. What stays with the reader is the image of Myra watching the world from behind a curtain, her quiet, persistent determination to live on her own terms, even when she feels like a stranger in her own life.