An impressive debut.
A first novel that examines personal grief and political grievances in contemporary Israel.
Avi Goldberg is in prison, refusing to do his tour in the Israeli Defense Force reserves (he has already completed his active duty). Avi’s father, Daniel, is a kibbutznik, a believer in the communitarian ideals associated with the founding of the Israeli state. While Avi is the protagonist, writing all night in his cell about his dead Israeli-Arab friend Saleem and his family, Daniel’s articulate, dry voice is heard in letters to Avi’s mother, Sareet. Sareet left the family when Avi was a child and moved to the Netherlands. The perspective shifts, recording the loss of Saleem’s ancestral home and the curious position Saleem found himself occupying when he opted to serve in the IDF. To his family, this decision is at best an abdication and at worst a betrayal. Along with multiple voices and perspectives, there are numerous flashbacks. The overall effect is of fragmentation—of lives, of the past. Even the future appears to be in tatters, the characters alternately desperate and fatalistic. When Avi is victimized, he appears unwilling to exact vengeance. While Daniel records Avi’s injuries in almost clinical detail, he has nothing to say about the environment that made such injuries routine. Deeply attuned to personal feelings, he is insulated from the climate of grief and resentment. In prison, Avi receives regular visits from Saleem’s widow. The grasping form of Sahar, Saleem's widow, and the tragic David, another prisoner and a conscientious objector, are haunting figures. David is as lost as everyone else, but he is lost to his convictions, and this seems almost heroic in this arid miasma.
An impressive debut.Pub Date: Jan. 1, 2013
ISBN: 978-1-57962-311-1
Page Count: 176
Publisher: Permanent Press
Review Posted Online: Oct. 10, 2012
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Nov. 1, 2012
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
This book sings with the terrible silence of dead civilizations in which once there was valor.
Written with quiet dignity that builds to a climax of tragic force, this book about the dissolution of an African tribe, its traditions, and values, represents a welcome departure from the familiar "Me, white brother" genre.
Written by a Nigerian African trained in missionary schools, this novel tells quietly the story of a brave man, Okonkwo, whose life has absolute validity in terms of his culture, and who exercises his prerogative as a warrior, father, and husband with unflinching single mindedness. But into the complex Nigerian village filters the teachings of strangers, teachings so alien to the tribe, that resistance is impossible. One must distinguish a force to be able to oppose it, and to most, the talk of Christian salvation is no more than the babbling of incoherent children. Still, with his guns and persistence, the white man, amoeba-like, gradually absorbs the native culture and in despair, Okonkwo, unable to withstand the corrosion of what he, alone, understands to be the life force of his people, hangs himself. In the formlessness of the dying culture, it is the missionary who takes note of the event, reminding himself to give Okonkwo's gesture a line or two in his work, The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger.
This book sings with the terrible silence of dead civilizations in which once there was valor.Pub Date: Jan. 23, 1958
ISBN: 0385474547
Page Count: 207
Publisher: McDowell, Obolensky
Review Posted Online: April 23, 2013
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 1, 1958
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
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