Richly textured and artfully told through the varied perspectives of believable characters.
Poet and novelist Divakaruni (The Conch Bearer, 2003, etc.) stirs up a tasty curry that’s half-mystery, half-fantasy in a clever tale of a young woman trying to sort out the mystery of her mother’s death—and life.
Having a clairvoyant mother can be a pain, but not always. Berkeley artist Rakhi Gupta is going through all the usual thirtysomething traumas of family and career—her first gallery exhibition is due to open soon, her coffeehouse is being undersold by a Starbucks-like competitor, her loathsome ex-husband is constantly dropping in to see their daughter—and she’s getting desperate enough to do the worst thing a grown girl can do: turn to her mother for help. Mrs. Gupta is an India-born “dream reader” who has developed a select following in California for her ability to interpret her clients’ nocturnal fantasies (“A dream of milk means you are about to fall ill”). Rakhi wants to sound her out on a few worries of her own, but before she has the chance her mother is killed in a car accident. Rakhi’s father, who survives the crash, tells her that just before the accident her mother seemed to be pursuing someone in a mysterious black car. Creepy enough—and now Rakhi’s six-year-old daughter Jona is becoming more and more insistent that her imaginary friend Elaina isn’t imaginary at all. A childhood fantasy—or a more complicated grown-up one? Somehow, Rakhi feels that the answers lie in her mother’s dream notebooks, which her father has agreed to translate for her. As a record of the hidden world of her clients and herself, Mrs. Gupta’s notebooks unlocked the door to many mysteries during her lifetime. Perhaps they’ll do so once more now that she is dead.
Richly textured and artfully told through the varied perspectives of believable characters.Pub Date: Sept. 14, 2004
ISBN: 0-385-50682-1
Page Count: 352
Publisher: Doubleday
Review Posted Online: June 24, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 15, 2004
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
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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