Mirroring the early, bitter work of Brett Easton Ellis and Jay McInerney, this is tough, twilit fare: youth as madhouse.

THE BIRD IS A RAVEN

Jagged, lyrical, this gem from a 23-year-old wunderkind of German fiction (Crazy, 2000) shines darkly.

Two strangers on a train bound for Berlin fall to talking. Ethnology student Paul, spirit broken, mainly listens as Henry gushes words. His is a tale of devastated friendship, a bond comprised of pathology and fantasy. Enraptured by anorexic Christine, blonde, black-clad and mysterious or vacant, Henry is crowded by obese Jens, a patient at Christine’s eating-disorders clinic, a mournful puppyish type who clings to the blonde even while insisting that Big Macs beat sex. The three fuse, grooving to Steve Miller’s “The Joker,” meditating on MTV and inhaling codependency. Henry—mad about girls or maybe just plain mad—spouts a speed-freak version of the high romanticism of Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther. Social pariah Jens dreams that he’s “actually a powerful and beautiful creature of light,” and Christine provides the moth a flame. When Henry finally makes his move on her, Jens, feeling betrayed, threatens suicide. As Henry recalls the story, Paul nods and mutters, his mind seized by his own dark imaginings—of gluing himself, heart and soul, to Mandy, a prostitute at one of the capital’s pricier bordellos. Plainly, his fantasy-life is twisted yet more tightly than even his fellow passenger’s, and at the end of the novella, when he uncoils, it’s into a psychic cesspool, a place violent and strange.

Mirroring the early, bitter work of Brett Easton Ellis and Jay McInerney, this is tough, twilit fare: youth as madhouse.

Pub Date: Jan. 25, 2006

ISBN: 1-4000-4284-4

Page Count: 128

Publisher: Knopf

Review Posted Online: May 20, 2010

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Nov. 1, 2005

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Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.

THE HANDMAID'S TALE

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

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ANIMAL FARM

A FAIRY STORY

A modern day fable, with modern implications in a deceiving simplicity, by the author of Dickens. Dali and Others (Reynal & Hitchcock, p. 138), whose critical brilliance is well adapted to this type of satire. This tells of the revolt on a farm, against humans, when the pigs take over the intellectual superiority, training the horses, cows, sheep, etc., into acknowledging their greatness. The first hints come with the reading out of a pig who instigated the building of a windmill, so that the electric power would be theirs, the idea taken over by Napoleon who becomes topman with no maybes about it. Napoleon trains the young puppies to be his guards, dickers with humans, gradually instigates a reign of terror, and breaks the final commandment against any animal walking on two legs. The old faithful followers find themselves no better off for food and work than they were when man ruled them, learn their final disgrace when they see Napoleon and Squealer carousing with their enemies... A basic statement of the evils of dictatorship in that it not only corrupts the leaders, but deadens the intelligence and awareness of those led so that tyranny is inevitable. Mr. Orwell's animals exist in their own right, with a narrative as individual as it is apt in political parody.

Pub Date: Aug. 26, 1946

ISBN: 0452277507

Page Count: 114

Publisher: Harcourt, Brace

Review Posted Online: Nov. 2, 2011

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Aug. 1, 1946

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