Notes of a Crocodile

Notes of a Crocodile, published in 1994, stands as a monumental work in Taiwanese literature and a defining text for the Chinese-speaking queer community. Written by the prodigiously talented Qiu Miaojin shortly before her tragic suicide in Paris at the age of twenty-six, the novel captures the raw, chaotic energy of post-martial law Taiwan. It is not merely a coming-of-age story but a visceral exploration of alienation, desire, and the struggle to exist in a word that refuses to recognize one’s true self. The book’s publication coincided with a period of rapid social transformation in Taiwan, where new freedoms were colliding with deep-seated conservative values. In this vacuum, Qiu’s voice emerged as a desperate, furious cry for recognition, blending high modernism with the gritty reality of Taipei’s underground subcultures.

Scholars like Fran Martin have situated the novel within the “literature of transgressive sexuality” that flourished after the lifting of martial law in 1987. This was an era where the media began to sensationalize homosexuality, treating it as an “entertainment commodity” while simultaneously pathologizing it. Qiu Miaojin wrote against this backdrop, crafting a narrative that refused to be consumed easily. Her protagonist, Lazi, became an icon not because she was a “positive role model,” but because she articulated the specific, painful texture of closeted life. The novel operates as a “survival manual” for a generation of queer youth, blending the high-stakes angst of Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther with the fragmentary, cinematic techniques of Derek Jarman.

The novel is structured as a collage of diary entries, letters, and surreal vignettes, centered on the narrator, Lazi. A university student in Taipei, Lazi navigates a series of intense, painful relationships with other women, most notably the older Shui Ling. Through her confessional narrative, we witness her profound internal conflict—a desperate yearning for connection warring with a deep-seated sense of shame and unworthiness. Lazi’s voice is at once fragile and ferocious, articulating the specific loneliness of being “abnormal” in a rigid society. She describes her love as a “terminally ill” condition, viewing her own desire through a lens of pathology that reflects the homophobic medical and social discourses of the time. This internalized homophobia is the engine of her suffering, driving her into cycles of self-destruction and isolation.

Qiu Miaojin draws heavily on the tradition of the Japanese “I-novel” (shishōsetsu), particularly the works of Osamu Dazai, to create a narrative where the boundary between author and protagonist is deliberately blurred. She also engages with Western modernism and existentialism, referencing Jean Genet and Marguerite Duras. However, her most striking literary interlocutor is Haruki Murakami; looking past his magical realism, she identifies a “palpable homosexual connection” in works like Norwegian Wood, repurposing his tone of urban alienation for a specifically queer context. This synthesis of influences creates a unique voice: one that is cosmopolitan yet deeply rooted in the specific geography and humidity of Taipei.

Interwoven with Lazi’s realist narrative are satirical, surrealist chapters about “crocodiles”—anthropomorphic beings who must wear “human suits” to blend into society. This powerful metaphor serves as the emotional core of the book: the crocodile represents the queer subject who is forced to perform a socially acceptable identity, constantly fearing exposure and persecution. Qiu satirizes the media’s sensation-seeking obsession with these “monsters,” mirroring the way Taiwanese media in the 90s treated homosexuality as a scandalous curiosity. The crocodiles live in fear of being discovered, their existence criminalized and pathologized, yet they also form a secret, fragile community. The character of the “prototype crocodile” acts as a tragic mirror to Lazi, embodying the fatal cost of living a lie.

The novel also fleshes out a vibrant ensemble of “deviants” surrounding Lazi, forming a “family of choice” that stands in opposition to the traditional Confucian family. Key among them is Weng Meng (or Meng Sheng), a cynical, wealthy nihilist who declares, “We come from a long line of deviants throughout history, a queer alternative to the ancestors that are an essential part of every Taiwanese family.” Weng Meng and his lover Chu Kuang represent a different facet of queer resistance—one that is aggressive, destructive, and deeply wounded. Their inclusion broadens the novel’s scope from a singular lesbian experience to a panoramic view of a marginalized generation.

Qiu Miaojin’s prose is experimental and jagged, mixing references to Western literature with local slang and abrasive humor. The text is often disjointed, reflecting the fractured psyche of its narrator. It moves from moments of tender lyricism to outbursts of violent rage, mimicking the erratic rhythms of depression. This “affective modernism” demands that the reader feel the weight of Lazi’s despair. The act of writing itself is presented as a life-or-death struggle, a way to impose order on the chaos of desire.

The tragedy of Qiu’s own suicide shortly after the book’s publication has inevitably colored its reception, creating a “Werther effect” where the author and the text become fused in a singular mythos of tragic genius. However, to read Notes of a Crocodile simply as a suicide note is to ignore its vitality, its humor, and its ferocious intellect. It is a work of immense ambition that sought to carve out a space for queer existence in language itself.

The legacy of Notes of a Crocodile is immense. The protagonist’s name, “Lazi,” became a slang term for “lesbian” in Taiwan, a linguistic reclamation of identity that persists to this day. The novel is widely credited with galvanizing the Tongzhi (LGBTQ+) movement in Taiwan, providing a vocabulary for a generation of queer youth to articulate their experiences. It is a work that refuses to look away from the pain of marginalization, yet in doing so, creates a dazzling, enduring monument to the lives lived in the shadows. It remains a searing indictment of homophobia and a poignant love letter to all the “crocodiles” hiding in plain sight.