Foe

Over the course of Foe, Friday emerges as perhaps the most important figure. He is not the protagonist, but this diminished status is exactly why he is so essential to the core premise of the novel. Many years ago, Friday’s tongue was cut out. The exact details of how this happened are shrouded in mystery, to the point where Susan cannot determine whether Cruso was actually responsible for the act or whether he merely took advantage of the violently imposed silence. Friday has no tongue, meaning that he has no voice. He cannot speak for himself; he cannot tell his own story. This silence is allegorical, an illustration of the racial violence of the Atlantic slave trade. Friday, seemingly, is the lone African survivor of a sunken slave ship; his compatriots were not so lucky, having drowned in the ocean after being ripped away from their homeland. Due to the racial, colonial structure of the societies portrayed in the novel, Friday and his fellow Africans are disenfranchised. In essence, colonial violence has torn out their tongues and denied them the ability to communicate their pain. Society does not care about violence inflicted against Black people, Friday’s character suggests, as they are silent, voiceless scenery for the stories of white men.

Since Friday has no voice, his character is often projected onto him. Cruso tells Susan about Friday’s character, insisting that Friday is actually lucky to be stuck on the island with him. He insists that Friday is happy and, indeed, grateful for his situation. After they leave the island, Susan comes to view Friday with a greater degree of empathy. She is still guilty of projecting desires and ideas onto him, however. Friday expresses no desire to return to Africa. Nevertheless, Susan attempts to place him aboard a ship to send him back to an unspecified homeland on a vast, unknown continent. When Friday does attempt to express himself, such as when he spreads petals on the ocean or when he dances in Foe’s robes and wig, his actions are dismissed as primitive and ritualistic. Friday is denied a voice, not only by the removal of his tongue but also by the other characters’ steadfast refusal to grant him any degree of agency or self-expression. Friday cannot speak, but his other attempts to communicate are dismissed as meaningless or “crazed.” Even the sympathetic Susan is guilty of this.

Over the course of the narrative, Susan realizes that the story of Friday’s tongue is the story that should be told and, furthermore, that it should be told by Friday himself. This is a very slow process, confined to the final pages of Part 3. In Part 4, something resembling a resolution is achieved. An unnamed narrator descends into a fantastical, dreamlike recreation of the sunken ship, where Friday is chained up in the corner. The narrator pries apart Friday’s mouth, symbolically granting him the ability to communicate his pain. What follows is a great outpouring of blackness, a figurative wave of grief and pain that flows over the narrator and all over the world. By teaching Friday to communicate, the narrator has granted him the humanity that society has denied him. His humanity is pained, as he speaks with the voice of the millions of enslaved dead and the drowned peoples who died in chains. His suffering is both personal and allegorical, revealing the implication of recognizing the true and terrible toll of colonial violence. Pain covers the world, revealing the brutal foundations on which modern society is built.

The titular Foe is a white, English intellectual and professional writer, a fictionalized portrayal of the historical figure, Daniel Defoe, who was the author of the prototypical castaway novel Robinson Crusoe. In the context of Foe, he is one of the few characters who has any form of status or power. He owns a house and possessions, as well as some degree of fame. His works have been published, and he has profited from their publication. The publication of these works, as well as the innate privilege of his race and gender, mean that he feels entitled to impose himself on Susan’s story. He goes so far as to arrange for a little girl to pose as Susan’s child, simply to manufacture a happy ending to her story. As a man, and as a writer, Foe feels entitled to alter Susan’s story and disregard her own desire for agency; Foe feels that he knows best. He wants to invent an entire life for Susan to achieve publishing success, treating her as though she is more of a character than a person.

For most of the novel, Foe is absent. He has been chased away from his home and his life by bailiffs, as he has become poor and desperate. Foe may have the privilege and status of a white English intellectual, but he does not have the financial resources to protect this status. Unlike Susan or Friday, however, Foe’s persecution is not due to innate characteristics. He was not born poor; he was wealthy enough to purchase the house and fill it with possessions, only to squander his money and lose what fame or status he may have held. This minor form of persecution may be enough to imbue Foe with some form of empathy, however, as he seems more willing to consider Susan’s feelings after he is tracked down. In his small lodgings, with his now-meagre resources, he is in a diminished state. When he is finally introduced to the novel in something other than the name at the top of a letter, he demonstrates a degree of empathy, which was missing from the man who appeared in Susan’s letters. At last, he agrees with Susan to abandon the pretense of her happy ending and to see Friday as the true heart of the story. Eventually, Foe gives himself over to Susan in a physical and emotional way. They have sex, after which he agrees with her that they should find a way to help Friday tell his own story. Foe’s most important role in the novel is to be less important. He is relegated to the background, while other voices are emphasized in his stead.