Although there are sparks of genuine wit in “The Happiness Game,” mostly at the expense of the parents and some of them...
First English-language translation for a popular Israeli columnist and journalist.
It’s depressing to discover that all the tedious mannerisms of “hip” contemporary American fiction have made their way across the ocean, but that’s the revelation offered here. This collection of three novellas reads like a compendium of literary brat-pack clichés: the oh-so-clever juxtaposition of a dog’s life and the crash-and-burn relationship of its master and mistress in the title story, the cute but aimless parallel of a 30-something’s affair and her 70-year-old parents’ sudden and seemingly unmotivated divorce in “The Happiness Game,” and the rapid shifting points-of-view in “Matti,” which Hedaya uses to tell the story of a man’s love for an adolescent girl, recalled by his wife, the girl, and his doctor as he lies dying of a brain tumor. All three tales suggest the impossibility of happiness in the chill of modern urban life, the disconnectedness and atomization that lead to repeated failed relationships, the jockeying for mastery that is a poor substitute for real feeling. The problem is that the writing is as devoid of such feeling as the people it depicts. Each of the stories is predicated on the methodical recounting of the details of daily life, and there is plenty of such detail, but no texture. Hedaya’s willfully lifeless prose reads like catalogue copy for a hardware store rather than literary fiction. The fault clearly lies with the writing and not the translation, which is expert in its rendering of the book’s cold, detached tone.
Although there are sparks of genuine wit in “The Happiness Game,” mostly at the expense of the parents and some of them randomly cruel, there isn’t much else that’s happening here.Pub Date: June 5, 2001
ISBN: 0-8050-5998-9
Page Count: 288
Publisher: Henry Holt
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: May 15, 2001
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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