The Handmaid’s Tale: a terrifying premise written in lyrical prose
Title: The Handmaid’s Tale
Author: Margaret Atwood
Publisher: Anchor Books
Pages: 314
My rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Who would like it: It’s a terrifying premise written in lyrical prose.
Our most celebrated award-winning Canadian author, Margaret Atwood, is being honoured with a Canada Post stamp this Thursday. It’s finally time for me to review her 1985 classic — The Handmaid’s Tale.
OK, this book is so difficult to review for me. I’ve finished the very last page of the epilogue more than three months ago now, and I still don’t know where to begin. I have revered Margaret Atwood ever since I’ve glimpsed her presence in the literary world, and having had the opportunity to taste her poetry, short stories, and bold and vivid critique (including her remarks in the twittersphere; and her thoughts on short-form writing) — she really is someone I admire and respect. For me, The Handmaid’s Tale really raised more questions than it answered — and that might as well be the essence of a well-written book (when questions are out there in the atmosphere, swirling in the air we inhale). The world doesn’t have definitive answers cut out for us, but how we interpret what we breathe in gives us clarity.
The story is set in a new regime, Gilead, that might as well take place in the future of the modern-day United States, with Canada across its northern border. In Gilead, there is a strict sense of social order, and our protagonist Offred recalls memories of her life, with her husband and little daughter, before she was taken into this totalitarian theocracy. In Gilead, Offred is a Handmaid. She is forced with the duty of reproduction for infertile women of higher social status, who are Wives of the Commanders. Offred is an object in the corner of the room, with her head down and red fabric covering all of her skin and shielding her face, a face without expression, silently submitting to a society she cannot change. Like the many other handmaids, she cannot speak unless spoken to, and she does not dare to do anything that may be even a mild threat to the state. We see the bleakness and brutality of the gears of society through Offred’s eyes, and we are haunted by shadowy and warm memories of a past life.
I read The Testaments (the sequel of The Handmaid’s Tale) in 2020 before The Handmaid’s Tale, and I found it to be captivating. The entire concept of Gilead is horrifyingly heinous, and this society that is almost a “thought-bubble experiment” composes the majority of the 300 pages — and what sends chills down people’s spines is that everything Atwood has written about has taken inspiration from some segment of history or society that has happened or is happening. The significance of Offred’s name indicates her belonging to the Commander — explicitly, “of” and “Fred”. She is offered, almost as a sacrificial object, to be the child-bearing property of the Commander. When slaves were taken from African in the Triangular Trade, they were stripped of their old names. When the unwomen (the lowest social class of adulterers, feminists, lesbians) are sent to the colonies for labour — where most people die in one or two years — we know that prisoners in some war camps the 1970s were forced to clean up radioactive materials. And those are only two fine examples of a complex, autonomous, and functional society with its social structure, norms, and pathways and mechanisms. Atwood’s writing is exquisite (but directly exquisite instead of opulently exquisite), and there are infinite pockets in her writing that can open up more discussions, and more pockets of information. The application to real life and the complexity in her postulations is what makes her works so mesmerizing and powerful.
The Handmaid’s Tale finishes abruptly. The entire novel is a suspension. A thought-provoking fragment. It doesn’t give an answer or a solid, definitive message of, “Here are three easy steps you can take to become a feminist.” It only presents a clean and gripping storyline with revolting emotions. This sense of openness is frustrating. What is feminism? Is make-up feminist? Is it sexualization? Do women gravitate towards being accepted by men? At the end of the day, anything that a woman chooses to do for herself is a statement of feminism.
Fortunately, Atwood is an astute critic, and she does not shy away from commentary on the diverse set of issues in both the literary and contemporary world. I adore her commentary and I can’t even fill a quarter of her shoes when it comes to writing a simple critique essay, so I will put down something the legend herself has written. Reading her words fills me with a sense of concrete clarity — I hope you enjoy it. Cheers!
https://books.openedition.org/pur/30511?lang=en
Does “feminist” mean a person in overalls, boots and no make-up who would like to push all men off a cliff, or does it mean someone who thinks women should be able to read and write?
— Margaret Atwood
