An eloquent microcosm of the existence endured by many of the world’s 68.5 million displaced persons, refugees, and asylum...
A tale of two caged men that provides an affecting fable for the plight of refugees.
The poorly clothed strangers arrive in an unnamed town and are given a room in a hotel. They’ve come from far away but decline to give their names, addresses, or the reason for their travels, which soon emerges as flight from some cataclysm. When pressed, the strangers respond symbolically, making from fencing wire a sculpture like a large, crude tea-strainer, which “represents [their] conundrum”: They are people who cannot speak of a past they have fled. Two townsmen scale up the creation, building a graphic irony that will confine the strangers until they explain their catastrophe, which is deemed important to the town’s well-being. In this cage they are exposed to the elements, fed through a hole, cleaned with a hose, and forced to eliminate in situ. The foul smell permeates the narrative. A committee forms to oversee them and asks a young man, the first-person narrator, to deliver weekly reports on their behavior. He’s eager, callow, not without empathy—a plausible stand-in for many readers. For the New Zealand–born Jones (A History of Silence, 2013, etc.), the strangers’ reticence serves the nonspecific nature of fable, but there’s an implication that they know from experience that their answers won’t satisfy their inquisitors. Similarly, they often ask about “the woman from the agency,” a Godot-like figure who also suggests this isn’t their first run-in with the elusive totems of bureaucracy. Meanwhile, the narrator gets fleshed out more than the committee members, with their smug justifications and group shrugs. He comes to reflect another conundrum, that of the well-meaning observer who seems to grow in awareness, even to care, yet still risks little to relieve abject conditions.
An eloquent microcosm of the existence endured by many of the world’s 68.5 million displaced persons, refugees, and asylum seekers, as recently counted by the United Nations.Pub Date: April 9, 2019
ISBN: 978-1925603-22-4
Page Count: 271
Publisher: Text
Review Posted Online: Jan. 20, 2019
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2019
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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