Over the last week, I read Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale; I couldn't put it down. My only concern in my hard-to-find moments of free time was whether or not Offred would ever make it out of this terrifying dystopian society, ever find her family and friends from the time before -- before she was reduced to a "womb with legs." Essentially, in the novel North American society has been overtaken by a group who believe only certain people are worthy of the rights and privileges we have today, and those who do not fit into that group are merely used for their services to the so-called greater good, while in reality they're required to serve the same group who decided who qualifies as worthy. In the case of the Handmaids, their only viable service is to use their bodies to propagate.
There's not a lot I can say about the plot without giving too much away, but I can say this -- what a motivation to promote valuing all lives, all people despite differences of opinion. Doesn't it boil down to that? In its simplest form, this is a story of a powerful group refusing to accept, refusing even to tolerate other human beings, reducing them to objects in order to justify using and discarding them. I'm not claiming we should not be passionate about our beliefs, values, morals; I'm insisting that shoving them down others' throats will never convince others to change their minds. Mandating beliefs is an oxymoron.
Addition:
The more I think on the whole novel, the more I think of a passage I want to point out.
Offred said: "But remember that forgiveness too is power. To beg for it is power, and to withhold it or bestow it is a power, perhaps the greatest" (p. 135).
I'm still pondering on just how much and what that means to me; right now it's still brewing in my mind, and I know it's strong. I just don't have words yet for how true that is for me.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Surprise Endings
After months of listening to Louise Edrich's The Plague of Doves while working on crocheting projects and reading Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte on again and off again, I have to admit both endings surprised me. I tackled both stories rather haphazardly, picking them up and putting them down for something else -- either due to convenience, with the former on audio book, or sheer difficulty moving onward, with the latter. I don't think this approach fostered my prediction skills, but who knows.
Let's start with The Plague of Doves, which I thoroughly enjoyed. As I mentioned in my post about The Round House, Erdrich starts the stories of these characters in Plague, and I have high hopes that these two books aren't the only ones about this particular family. Plague gave many, many smaller stories, and listening to it over several months did make it difficult to piece them all together and see how they were connected. (To my mathematical readers: sometimes it felt like a piecewise function made up of the most random components -- an absolute value grafted onto a cubic curve, grafted yet again onto a logarithmic, all with perfect continuity, and somehow still gracefully approaching infinity in the end. Can you tell I've been working with calculus this spring break?) Sometimes I wasn't sure why we needed to know about a certain person's specific experience, but as always, Louise brought it all together perfectly in the end, showing how each tiny detail played a role in discovering the true murderer from decades past. The interconnectedness of the characters, despite their inability to see it, fascinates me, and it makes me think about how such interconnectedness isn't a fictional characteristic of communities. It's like finding out that someone you've worked with for years knows someone you went to high school with (thank you, Facebook, for indicating mutual friends), except that's happening on a grander scale, and we are as oblivious to it as Erdrich's characters. Side note: I also found it interesting that just after I listened to a character's obsession with Anais Nin, she was described on The Writer's Almanac (where she was quoted as saying, "I write emotional algebra," which I think is cool), and she was mentioned on Bunheads (a tv show -- don't judge). While Nin seems a bit too intense for me to continue to follow, I just liked how so many small areas of my life intertwined for a moment.
And then there is Jane Eyre. And here is where I might make some of my English major friends very unhappy. I really just didn't enjoy it. (*scramble under the desk to avoid being hit with projectile paperweights of a reader or two*) Personally, I've never coped well with romantic novels' explanations of the drawing room's curtains and the like. (Yes, it's true, I didn't like Austen all that much.) I also know that I read such literature through a 2013 feminist's lens, and that's simply not fair. It doesn't change the fact that I do; I just know it affects my perception of the story. I also know that some of my most feminist-driven friends love this book, which means it really is just my personal lens that makes it difficult for me. I didn't connect with Jane, and I was more than perturbed with Rochester for not being up front with her about Bertha before they were in the church. Seriously? I had a hard time letting go of that incident. I'm sure I would have enjoyed analyzing it for reflections of social norms (gender roles, perception of mental illness and poverty, all sorts of things) in a class in undergrad, but I don't think I would've enjoyed reading it to get to that discussion even then. I even watched the movie from 1996 in hopes that seeing it would foster my connection with Jane and Rochester, make me want them to be together forever. It didn't work. Jane -- both Eyre and Austen -- just aren't my cup of tea. (Pun intended.)
With all of that said, I'm left with the great knowledge that it doesn't really matter that I have a huge literary crush on Erdrich and would rather leave Jane Eyre and the like for anyone else but me, even though it seems many, many people I know have the exact opposite opinions. (No one I've recommended Erdrich to has enjoyed her the way I do. No one. I even just found out that the professor who introduced me to Erdrich doesn't like her that much. Talk about a downer.) What matters is that I know what I like, and I try other pieces every now and again, and other people know what they like, and they try other pieces every now and again, too. So, take my opinions or leave them; I'm off to read another book from during or after the Modernist movement.
Let's start with The Plague of Doves, which I thoroughly enjoyed. As I mentioned in my post about The Round House, Erdrich starts the stories of these characters in Plague, and I have high hopes that these two books aren't the only ones about this particular family. Plague gave many, many smaller stories, and listening to it over several months did make it difficult to piece them all together and see how they were connected. (To my mathematical readers: sometimes it felt like a piecewise function made up of the most random components -- an absolute value grafted onto a cubic curve, grafted yet again onto a logarithmic, all with perfect continuity, and somehow still gracefully approaching infinity in the end. Can you tell I've been working with calculus this spring break?) Sometimes I wasn't sure why we needed to know about a certain person's specific experience, but as always, Louise brought it all together perfectly in the end, showing how each tiny detail played a role in discovering the true murderer from decades past. The interconnectedness of the characters, despite their inability to see it, fascinates me, and it makes me think about how such interconnectedness isn't a fictional characteristic of communities. It's like finding out that someone you've worked with for years knows someone you went to high school with (thank you, Facebook, for indicating mutual friends), except that's happening on a grander scale, and we are as oblivious to it as Erdrich's characters. Side note: I also found it interesting that just after I listened to a character's obsession with Anais Nin, she was described on The Writer's Almanac (where she was quoted as saying, "I write emotional algebra," which I think is cool), and she was mentioned on Bunheads (a tv show -- don't judge). While Nin seems a bit too intense for me to continue to follow, I just liked how so many small areas of my life intertwined for a moment.
And then there is Jane Eyre. And here is where I might make some of my English major friends very unhappy. I really just didn't enjoy it. (*scramble under the desk to avoid being hit with projectile paperweights of a reader or two*) Personally, I've never coped well with romantic novels' explanations of the drawing room's curtains and the like. (Yes, it's true, I didn't like Austen all that much.) I also know that I read such literature through a 2013 feminist's lens, and that's simply not fair. It doesn't change the fact that I do; I just know it affects my perception of the story. I also know that some of my most feminist-driven friends love this book, which means it really is just my personal lens that makes it difficult for me. I didn't connect with Jane, and I was more than perturbed with Rochester for not being up front with her about Bertha before they were in the church. Seriously? I had a hard time letting go of that incident. I'm sure I would have enjoyed analyzing it for reflections of social norms (gender roles, perception of mental illness and poverty, all sorts of things) in a class in undergrad, but I don't think I would've enjoyed reading it to get to that discussion even then. I even watched the movie from 1996 in hopes that seeing it would foster my connection with Jane and Rochester, make me want them to be together forever. It didn't work. Jane -- both Eyre and Austen -- just aren't my cup of tea. (Pun intended.)
With all of that said, I'm left with the great knowledge that it doesn't really matter that I have a huge literary crush on Erdrich and would rather leave Jane Eyre and the like for anyone else but me, even though it seems many, many people I know have the exact opposite opinions. (No one I've recommended Erdrich to has enjoyed her the way I do. No one. I even just found out that the professor who introduced me to Erdrich doesn't like her that much. Talk about a downer.) What matters is that I know what I like, and I try other pieces every now and again, and other people know what they like, and they try other pieces every now and again, too. So, take my opinions or leave them; I'm off to read another book from during or after the Modernist movement.
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