Herbach’s debut is an odd read—simple, even spartan, on one hand, but luxuriantly flaky on the other.
The epistolary novel lives, albeit in this rather strange variation.
Theodore (who always goes by “T.”) Rimberg has pretty much given up on life—not surprising since he’s lost his corporate job (when he finds he’s gotten an inheritance from his father he strips during a boring company meeting), as well as his wife, his children and his mistress. He decides to take the usual way out, by taking his own life, but not before he has written a multitude of bizarre suicide notes to the likes of President Clinton, Paul McCartney, Jack Nicholson—and Mrs. Carter (T.’s high-school English teacher, who “sucked” because she thought his poetry should rhyme). The twist is that these events happened a year in the past. In the present, T. has recently been involved in a mysterious and fiery crash and has emerged both a hero and a changed man. The narrative has a complex structure, alternating his year-of-crisis documents (suicide notes, journal entries) with transcripts of T.’s side of conversations with Father Barry, a sympathetic priest whose voice we never hear directly. Father Barry is interested in what miracle might have occurred in the conflagration, for T. has become something of a media darling. Both the letters and journals trace T.’s tangled relationship with his father, a distant figure who seems to have had more love for the Green Bay Packers than for his son. In exploring his family’s past (his grandfather, a successful German Jew, colluded with the Nazis) and reviewing his relationship with his father, T. becomes aware of the “miracle” of realizing the preciousness of his life and of all life: “Thank God I am.”
Herbach’s debut is an odd read—simple, even spartan, on one hand, but luxuriantly flaky on the other.Pub Date: April 1, 2008
ISBN: 978-0-307-39637-2
Page Count: 288
Publisher: Three Rivers/Crown
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 15, 2008
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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