Slow-movement storytelling: fully-fleshed, compassionate, and satisfying.
The abandonment of a newborn child in a pear orchard opens an intense tale of choices and consequences which, despite its early-20th-century setting, has the capacious feel of a Victorian novel.
Set on Cape Ann, Massachusetts, in the 1910s and '20s, Solomon's (The Little Bride, 2011) penetrating second work of fiction connects Irish and Jewish, workers and bluebloods, the fertile and the barren. Events spring from an abrupt sexual act that leaves wealthy, musical, Jewish Bea Haven pregnant. Sent to live with relatives in the country until the baby is born and she can take up her place at Radcliffe, 18-year-old Bea is repelled at the chilly prospect of placing her child in an orphanage and instead leaves the girl in the path of Irish trespassers who annually strip her uncle’s fruit trees. So the baby—in future known as Lucy Pear—is spirited away by Emma Murphy to join her brood of nine children. Solomon returns repeatedly to Bea’s fragile psychology in the ensuing decade: her breakdown, her withdrawal, her failing marriage to handsome, gay Albert Cohn, her sadness for “all the lives that might have been hers.” Meanwhile, Lucy grows up visibly different from her adoptive family, while Emma begins an affair with a local businessman and finds herself working, briefly, for Bea, whom she recognizes as Lucy’s mother. As background, Solomon introduces Prohibition and the Sacco and Vanzetti case, yet the novel seems to belong to an earlier era of storytelling, focused on the inner lives and challenges of a community, especially the womenfolk. Repeatedly opting for the less predictable outcome, Solomon reaches resolutions marked with the same reflective maturity as the rest of this solidly absorbing novel.
Slow-movement storytelling: fully-fleshed, compassionate, and satisfying.Pub Date: July 26, 2016
ISBN: 978-1-594-63265-5
Page Count: 336
Publisher: Viking
Review Posted Online: May 3, 2016
Kirkus Reviews Issue: May 15, 2016
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
These letters from some important executive Down Below, to one of the junior devils here on earth, whose job is to corrupt mortals, are witty and written in a breezy style seldom found in religious literature. The author quotes Luther, who said: "The best way to drive out the devil, if he will not yield to texts of Scripture, is to jeer and flout him, for he cannot bear scorn." This the author does most successfully, for by presenting some of our modern and not-so-modern beliefs as emanating from the devil's headquarters, he succeeds in making his reader feel like an ass for ever having believed in such ideas. This kind of presentation gives the author a tremendous advantage over the reader, however, for the more timid reader may feel a sense of guilt after putting down this book. It is a clever book, and for the clever reader, rather than the too-earnest soul.
Pub Date: Jan. 1, 1942
ISBN: 0060652934
Page Count: 53
Publisher: Macmillan
Review Posted Online: Oct. 17, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: June 15, 1943
Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.
The time is the not-so-distant future, when the US's spiraling social freedoms have finally called down a reaction, an Iranian-style repressive "monotheocracy" calling itself the Republic of Gilead—a Bible-thumping, racist, capital-punishing, and misogynistic rule that would do away with pleasure altogether were it not for one thing: that the Gileadan women, pure and true (as opposed to all the nonbelieving women, those who've ever been adulterous or married more than once), are found rarely fertile.
Thus are drafted a whole class of "handmaids," whose function is to bear the children of the elite, to be fecund or else (else being certain death, sent out to be toxic-waste removers on outlying islands). The narrative frame for Atwood's dystopian vision is the hopeless private testimony of one of these surrogate mothers, Offred ("of" plus the name of her male protector). Lying cradled by the body of the barren wife, being meanwhile serviced by the husband, Offred's "ceremony" must be successful—if she does not want to join the ranks of the other disappeared (which include her mother, her husband—dead—and small daughter, all taken away during the years of revolt). One Of her only human conduits is a gradually developing affair with her master's chauffeur—something that's balanced more than offset, though, by the master's hypocritically un-Puritan use of her as a kind of B-girl at private parties held by the ruling men in a spirit of nostalgia and lust. This latter relationship, edging into real need (the master's), is very effectively done; it highlights the handmaid's (read Everywoman's) eternal exploitation, profane or sacred ("We are two-legged wombs, that's all: sacred vessels, ambulatory chalices"). Atwood, to her credit, creates a chillingly specific, imaginable night-mare. The book is short on characterization—this is Atwood, never a warm writer, at her steeliest—and long on cynicism—it's got none of the human credibility of a work such as Walker Percy's Love In The Ruins. But the scariness is visceral, a world that's like a dangerous and even fatal grid, an electrified fence.
Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.Pub Date: Feb. 17, 1985
ISBN: 038549081X
Page Count: -
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin
Review Posted Online: Sept. 16, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 15, 1985
SEEN & HEARD
BOOK TO SCREEN
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