A coming-of-age story for boozy 20-somethings.
A writer manqué works a dull job, hooks up with a girl and finally gets his novel written—to no acclaim whatsoever.
Stratton Brown loses his Wall Street job in the recent economic downturn and impulsively decides to move to Chicago. His timing is a bit off, however, for it’s November and he finds Chicago a bitter place to make a living. At first, Stratton stays with a former acquaintance who’s making, as they say, a good dollar, but he quickly wears out his welcome by stealing his host’s booze and a few double sawbucks. Stratton eventually finds an excruciatingly tedious job helping to edit telephone books, and this gives him just enough dough to rent a run-down apartment, whose walls convulse with every passing of the El, a feature particularly annoying in the middle of the night. This unprepossessing room is rented out by the mysterious Gene, a man who appreciates cigars and fine wine. Around Christmastime, Gene and Stratton hit a local bar, where Gene bets that Stratton won’t talk to a fairly attractive—and obviously lonely—young woman. Gene reluctantly takes the bet but finds himself unexpectedly attracted to the woman, Carolyn, who with Gene’s help, escapes from an abusive boyfriend and moves in with Stratton. Although their sexual connection is heated, Stratton is reluctant to share his troubled past with Carolyn, a reticence that ultimately dooms their relationship. Hughes gives us generous flashbacks into Stratton’s growing up in Ohio, where his parents ran a bar and his father was an unadulterated jerk. While Stratton finds ample material for writing a novel, the reader is kept curiously in the dark about its substance.
A coming-of-age story for boozy 20-somethings.Pub Date: Oct. 16, 2012
ISBN: 978-1-59376-449-4
Page Count: 352
Publisher: Soft Skull Press
Review Posted Online: Sept. 1, 2012
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Sept. 15, 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
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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