An imaginative and deeply felt debut in which the First Parents’ flaws make us wonder why they ever thought they had a...
Dueling deities, and a first family distressingly familiar in its dysfunction, enliven newcomer Elliott’s highly original look at Original Sin.
Eve and Adam are happily ensconced in the Garden, despite occasional spats about who came first. But after Eve, with Adam’s passive-aggressive collaboration, takes sexy Lucifer’s cue to nosh on forbidden fruit, God—Elohim—reluctantly ejects them. Years later, after much hardship, Eve and Adam have founded a thriving compound, complete with courtyard, dates, figs, grapes, beer, bread and flocks of sheep and goats. Their children—Eve and her daughters narrate—each have a role: Abel herds animals, Cain farms, lovely daughter Naava spins and weaves, youngest daughter Dara molds clay, etc. Although Adam tries to perpetuate the worship of Elohim, Cain venerates the gods of a neighboring city, particularly Inanna, a Sumerian mother/fertility goddess. (Elliott’s avowedly fanciful world conflates the Bronze Age and the late Stone Age.) Nubile Naava has seduced Cain and cajoled him into introducing her to this teeming primordial metropolis of temples, marketplaces and kohl-lidded women sporting tattoos, piercings and hennaed hair. Resentful that Dara babysits for the harem of the city’s prince, Naava sets her sights on the prince himself—a young man as sultry and beguiling as the persona Lucifer adopted to co-opt Eve. When Naava, costumed as Inanna, marries the prince, Cain, enraged, foments a riot and Eve’s family must flee the city. But strife follows them home as Cain and Abel’s lifelong sibling rivalry ends in murder. Exotic setting aside, this could be any contemporary family plagued by a manic-depressive son, a sulky teenager and a father who is shockingly deficient in the wisdom expected of a First Progenitor. Perennially pregnant, Eve can’t do much except whine inwardly about her past errors and the family’s present turmoil.
An imaginative and deeply felt debut in which the First Parents’ flaws make us wonder why they ever thought they had a snowball’s chance in Eden.Pub Date: Jan. 27, 2009
ISBN: 978-0-385-34144-8
Page Count: 422
Publisher: Delacorte
Review Posted Online: June 24, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Dec. 1, 2008
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
Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.
A retelling of ancient Greek lore gives exhilarating voice to a witch.
“Monsters are a boon for gods. Imagine all the prayers.” So says Circe, a sly, petulant, and finally commanding voice that narrates the entirety of Miller’s dazzling second novel. The writer returns to Homer, the wellspring that led her to an Orange Prize for The Song of Achilles (2012). This time, she dips into The Odyssey for the legend of Circe, a nymph who turns Odysseus’ crew of men into pigs. The novel, with its distinctive feminist tang, starts with the sentence: “When I was born, the name for what I was did not exist.” Readers will relish following the puzzle of this unpromising daughter of the sun god Helios and his wife, Perse, who had negligible use for their child. It takes banishment to the island Aeaea for Circe to sense her calling as a sorceress: “I will not be like a bird bred in a cage, I thought, too dull to fly even when the door stands open. I stepped into those woods and my life began.” This lonely, scorned figure learns herbs and potions, surrounds herself with lions, and, in a heart-stopping chapter, outwits the monster Scylla to propel Daedalus and his boat to safety. She makes lovers of Hermes and then two mortal men. She midwifes the birth of the Minotaur on Crete and performs her own C-section. And as she grows in power, she muses that “not even Odysseus could talk his way past [her] witchcraft. He had talked his way past the witch instead.” Circe’s fascination with mortals becomes the book’s marrow and delivers its thrilling ending. All the while, the supernatural sits intriguingly alongside “the tonic of ordinary things.” A few passages coil toward melodrama, and one inelegant line after a rape seems jarringly modern, but the spell holds fast. Expect Miller’s readership to mushroom like one of Circe’s spells.
Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.Pub Date: April 10, 2018
ISBN: 978-0-316-55634-7
Page Count: 400
Publisher: Little, Brown
Review Posted Online: Jan. 22, 2018
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2018
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