Pascal Aquien’s Lucrèce n’est pas une femme is not a conventional biography. It is a kaleidoscope of a life, a portrait told through fragments, reflections, and conversations that drift between confession, philosophy, and performance. The book centers on an extraordinary figure, André B., who became Lucrèce, an 86-year-old transgender man who lived much of his life as a cabaret artist in Paris. The choice of form is as bold as its subject: instead of a chronological narrative, Aquien structures the book as an alphabetical and thematic glossary. Each entry offers a piece of Lucrèce’s existence, an anecdote, a confession, or a philosophical musing, all contributing to a puzzle that the reader is invited to complete in any order they wish. The effect is one of freedom and fluidity, mirroring the life of its protagonist, who lived by no fixed rules, gender expectations, or literary conventions.
The meeting between Pascal Aquien, a university professor known for his academic works on Oscar Wilde and Thomas De Quincey, and Lucrèce, a flamboyant artist who once shared stages and friendships with figures like Jean Marais and Marlene Dietrich, seems at first unlikely. Yet their dialogue reveals an unexpected harmony. Aquien, with his scholarly precision and literary sensibility, listens to Lucrèce’s memories and contradictions with empathy and curiosity. What emerges is not merely a portrait of an individual but a meditation on identity, art, and the human need to perform roles that both conceal and reveal our true selves. Lucrèce is not presented as a tragic figure but as someone who has lived intensely, with humor and resilience, despite the hardships of a childhood shadowed by an alcoholic stepfather and an adored but distant mother.
Through Lucrèce’s voice, the reader hears the story of someone who always knew she was different, someone who felt herself to be a woman who loved men and who found in performance a way to exist fully. The cabaret becomes her temple, the stage her mirror, and the persona of Lucrèce her truest expression. Her existence challenges binary notions of gender and invites reflection on what it means to define oneself. “I am not a tomboy,” she says. “I am a failed woman.” It is a statement filled with irony and self-awareness, a rejection of labels and an embrace of ambiguity. For Lucrèce, identity is not a box to be ticked but a dance between what one feels, what one becomes, and what others see.
In this unconventional biography, Aquien also examines the question of what it means to play a role. Lucrèce’s life on stage is mirrored by the roles we all play in everyday life, those imposed by society, chosen for survival, or necessary for expression. The cabaret artist who puts on a wig and makeup each night becomes a mirror for everyone who performs a version of themselves in order to be seen or understood. The result is a book that is both joyful and unsettling, intellectual yet deeply human.
Still, the fragmentation of the narrative has its risks. Reading the glossary sequentially can feel disjointed, the rhythm broken by abrupt shifts between themes. The choice to sacrifice linear storytelling in favor of alphabetical freedom sometimes leaves the reader longing for continuity, for the emotional build-up of a more traditional biography. Yet perhaps this was precisely Aquien’s intention: to resist coherence, to let Lucrèce’s story unfold like her life, with digressions, interruptions, and moments of dazzling spontaneity.
Beyond its stylistic originality, Lucrèce n’est pas une femme invites readers to reflect on the notion of the “third gender,” what Lucrèce herself calls the “neutral.” Her reflections challenge both the rigidity of masculine identity and the romanticized vision of femininity, revealing instead a space in between, one that is fluid, personal, and authentic. The book becomes not only a portrait of one individual but also a commentary on how slowly society adapts to new understandings of gender and identity. Through humor, tenderness, and defiance, Lucrèce speaks for everyone who has lived between categories, who has transformed pain into art, and who has made peace with the contradictions that define being human.
In the end, Pascal Aquien’s portrait of Lucrèce is more than a biography. It is a dialogue between generations, a study of self-definition, and an act of homage to the courage of living one’s truth. Beneath the sequins and stage lights lies a story of endurance and complexity, one that refuses easy definitions. The book closes, as Lucrèce’s life does, with a lingering sense of freedom. She remains elusive, magnetic, and wholly herself, neither man nor woman, but something infinitely richer.
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