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Carrie plays dual roles in the novel. In the main narrative (much of which unfolds through Carrie’s perspective), Carrie is the battered and lonely girl who suffers abuse and isolation in all facets of her life: “At sixteen, the elusive stamp of hurt was already marked clearly in her eyes” (8). Her second role in the novel is as an object of study—the cause of a calamity and more of a symbol than a person. The reader’s foreknowledge of Carrie’s destructive rampage lends tension to Carrie’s lived experiences, weighting her every scene with a sense of inevitability. Her second role, however, is strictly in service of her first: The horror of Carrie’s eventual mass murder is secondary to the depiction of Carrie’s tormented humanity.
There is no love in Carrie’s life. She is the result of marital rape and born to a mother who immediately wants to kill her. Her mother’s fundamentalist religious practices frighten her and cut her off from outside knowledge to the point that at 16 she doesn’t know what menstruation is. She doesn’t know how to interact with her peers, either. Chris Hargensen mentions that she “runs around saying everyone but her and her gilt-edged momma are going to hell” (92). This alienates her further, turning her into an “Other” who seems to invite bullying—at the end of the novel, even the reformed Sue Snell still can’t help thinking Carrie looks like a “GODDAM TOAD” (288). Her large, awkward body and plodding nature separate her from the lithe teenage bodies around her, making her “a frog among swans” (5).
Carrie’s task throughout the novel is to master her body both psychologically and physically. Very little is revealed of Carrie’s wants—indeed, she doesn’t seem capable of articulating them even to herself. When she pictures her life after high school it is merely an extension of her current life; she simply grows older and heavier while continuing to live under her mother’s thumb. Her only chance at a happier life is through mastery of her body. At least then, as she swears to herself about her evening with Tommy, she will be able to exercise a degree of control. Only after Carrie practices the bodily autonomy of exercising her telekinesis does she feel safe enough to trust Tommy not to trick her. This is Carrie at her most vulnerable, yet she is also at her most powerful. Her time with Tommy before the vote is uplifting and allows her a momentary view of a life she didn’t even know was possible; after the vote, she is transcendent in the realization of her happiness and humanity until the bucket of blood forever marks her as Other.
This is when the other side of Carrie’s bodily mastery comes into play. She progresses from a childlike wish to ruin hairdos and shoes with sprinkler water to mass homicide in minutes, relishing the ability to display her power before her tormentors. She is finally able to manifest the rage-filled images of devastation she has fostered her whole life, exposing the true extent of her anger and loneliness. She is deliberately malicious as she moves through Chamberlin; after witnessing students electrocuted in the gym, she uses what she has learned to electrocute a street full of people, underscoring that she is acting with calculation rather than unthinking rage.
Yet her destruction fails to define her in the eyes of her ultimate biographer, Sue Snell. It is Carrie’s dying wish to turn and look at the stars above her, but she cannot do so herself. Only when Sue arrives and turns her over, does she receive her wish. It is also Sue who will later work for the acceptance of Carrie, asserting to the White Commission and in her own autobiography that Carrie was not a monster or a symbol but simply a girl who was incessantly hurt by the world. Carrie’s final act, her communion with Sue, enables Sue to write about Carrie with “the awful totality of perfect knowledge” so that the final analysis of Carrie White is not as a mass murderer (287), but as a compassionate portrait of human suffering.
The story of Sue Snell’s coming-of-age stands in marked contrast to Carrie’s, yet it is impossible without Carrie. Sue’s moral rehabilitation gives structure to the novel, in which she moves from one amongst a mob to a self-individuated woman capable of atonement. Yet Sue is not defined simply by her redemption arc: She is alternately hostile and generous, conformist and defiant, her oscillating personality reflecting her inner turmoil.
Sue receives a visceral look at the meaning and consequence of conformity when she participates in the locker-room assault on Carrie, unleashing her character on its defining path. Once Sue discards the future she had always imagined she’d have, she must establish her own values and goals. By imagining Carrie’s life, she concludes a girl so isolated would crave acceptance, so she manufactures the opportunity for her. While Sue colors a prom banner with a friend (132), she recognizes herself as different: a person who stands for something and is capable of action. In an inversion of Carrie’s hated isolation, Sue finds her true self in isolation from her peers.
When Sue turns Carrie over to see the stars, her journey of change comes to its conclusion. Sue is now in a place where she can communicate with Carrie on a fundamental level. She reveals her humanity to Carrie: her childhood hurt and embarrassment, and her feelings of jealousy, self-hatred, and even disgust with Carrie. She provides Carrie with a final comfort, perhaps the only comfort in her life, and proves to Carrie that at least one person meant her no harm. Her lasting concern for Carrie characterizes her life after the prom. She advocates for Carrie’s humanity and writes a book stressing that Carrie is not the supernatural monster she is regularly depicted to be. Sue’s compassion for Carrie endures beyond her feelings for Tommy, and the task of reminding the world of Carrie’s worth is one that she undertakes before she will allow herself to rest.
Margaret, Carrie’s mother, is one of the primary antagonists in the novel. Margaret embodies the malevolent power of patriarchy’s oppression of women. Margaret is a large, physically imposing woman, and she uses her physical presence to subdue Carrie and force her to practice Margaret’s fundamentalist take on Christianity.
Margaret, however, is also a victim of her own religion. She has internalized the misogynistic shame her patriarchal Christian beliefs promote—particularly the idea of Eve as the original sinner and the cause of humanity’s fallen stature. Her biggest fear is female sexuality, which her religion wholly denies, and she constantly acts as an agent of suppression, physically abusing herself and Carrie to mitigate what she sees as an essential sinfulness of the female body. Carrie is an inescapable reminder of Margaret’s own sexuality—specifically, of her enjoyment of marital rape—and is therefore inextricably intertwined with sex and violence. Much like Carrie, Margaret uses biblical imagery to justify her violence, at the end of the novel comparing herself to Abraham, whom God tasked with sacrificing his child.
Chris is the other primary antagonist in the novel. She represents the malevolent power of conventional femininity under patriarchy. She embodies the idealized woman—pretty, popular, and sexually attractive—and she utilizes all of these aspects of her personality to gain power over others. She uses both her father and Billy as weapons when she herself cannot exercise power directly, but she is the agitating agent. It is Chris’s bullying that first calls forth Carrie’s power and later focuses its destruction After the locker-room assault, Chris becomes representative of the “They” that haunts Carrie—the general malevolence of the crowd or inside group. A prototypical bully, Chris has picked on outsiders throughout her entire schooling career, once even placing a firecracker in a girl’s shoe and almost causing her to lose her toes.
Tommy is a complex character who, while seemingly manipulated by Sue, exercises much agency and arguably displays the most kindness toward Carrie. He is not as conflicted as Sue and represents a middle ground in the emotional sphere of the novel. He bears no ill will toward anyone, and his placidity suggests that Carrie’s polarized, Christian view of the world as divided into good and evil is overly simplistic. Tommy is neither perfect nor sinful; he is kind, but not because of a divine imperative. His presence suggests that Carrie could actually find acceptance in the wider world, but her thinking is too warped by her mother and the torment of others to recognize this.
Billy is Chris’s boyfriend, and his outright violence juxtaposes her emotional and social violence. Billy is comfortable with physical aggression and is an agent of masculine power. He is domineering, violent, and misogynistic, even referring to his girlfriend by slang for her genitalia. Only when keyed up for violence does he display any feeling for Chris, and he can only articulate this through the notion of perpetuating more violence.
Miss Desjardin, the PE teacher, is a moral but ineffectual force, hobbled by the patriarchy. She stands for those around Carrie who might have had good intentions but failed to act on them. She displays complicated feelings toward Carrie, at the beginning of the novel admitting to herself that she “regard[s] Carrie as a fat, whiney bag of lard” (13). While her opinion of Carrie changes once she better understands Carrie’s plight, she is still largely unable to act on her better impulses. An all-male administration prevents her from punishing Carrie’s attackers, and her other attempts at amelioration come too late. She resembles a mother figure in the sense that she teaches Carrie about menstruation, but she takes on some of the worst characteristics of Carrie’s own mother when she physically lashes out at Chris. She attempts to help Carrie enjoy the prom by sharing her own experiences and normalizing interaction with Carrie, but her attempts at connection are unsuccessful; when she rushes to help a blood-drenched Carrie, Carrie simply casts her aside without a second thought.
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By Stephen King