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THE WORD OF THE SPEECHLESS

A welcome selection of prose that introduces a Latin American master to English-language audiences.

Sometimes bleak, sometimes warily humorous stories by Peruvian writer Ribeyro.

Ribeyro (1929-1994) is in the second tier of the Latin American Boom, much less well known than his compatriot Mario Vargas Llosa, to say nothing of Gabriel García Márquez, Alejo Carpentier, and Jorge Luis Borges. The latter’s influence can be sensed in some of the stories gathered here, especially the ones in which Ribeyro’s protagonists turn out to be ghosts, as the closing of the first story, “Tracks,” reveals: “He remembered that the monogram on the handkerchief were his initials, and he no longer had any doubt that inside his room the spectacle of his own death had just taken place.” In another story, a fisherman similarly awaits his own murder; in still another, a bankrupt man considers the relief that a plunge down a seaside cliff, “that precise border between the earth and the sea,” might bring. Some of Ribeyro’s stories, especially the earlier and the shorter ones, are imbued with death, sometimes revealed, sometimes acknowledged at the very beginning of a story (“But he…found little interest in all of these subjects, as he had been dead for three days”). Almost all have a kind of knowing cynicism to them, with ironic distance but not without humor, as with the long story that gave its title to a late collection, “For Smokers Only”; there, the protagonist, a chain smoker like the author himself, admits to a host of health problems—“indigestion, nausea, fatigue, loss of appetite, heart palpitations, dizzy spells, and a stomach ulcer”—that have beset him while concluding that, well, since Flaubert smoked so much that his mustache was yellow and Gorky and Hemingway were also addicted to tobacco, there may just be good literary reason to keep puffing away. Albeit happy endings are few, Ribeyro’s stories often offer unexpected twists, their characters mysteriously disappearing in a flurry of snow or puffs of smoke from cigarettes here and guns there.

A welcome selection of prose that introduces a Latin American master to English-language audiences.

Pub Date: Aug. 13, 2019

ISBN: 978-1-68137-323-2

Page Count: 264

Publisher: New York Review Books

Review Posted Online: May 12, 2019

Kirkus Reviews Issue: June 1, 2019

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THE HANDMAID'S TALE

Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.

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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

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THE THINGS THEY CARRIED

It's being called a novel, but it is more a hybrid: short-stories/essays/confessions about the Vietnam War—the subject that O'Brien reasonably comes back to with every book. Some of these stories/memoirs are very good in their starkness and factualness: the title piece, about what a foot soldier actually has on him (weights included) at any given time, lends a palpability that makes the emotional freight (fear, horror, guilt) correspond superbly. Maybe the most moving piece here is "On The Rainy River," about a draftee's ambivalence about going, and how he decided to go: "I would go to war—I would kill and maybe die—because I was embarrassed not to." But so much else is so structurally coy that real effects are muted and disadvantaged: O'Brien is writing a book more about earnestness than about war, and the peekaboos of this isn't really me but of course it truly is serve no true purpose. They make this an annoyingly arty book, hiding more than not behind Hemingwayesque time-signatures and puerile repetitions about war (and memory and everything else, for that matter) being hell and heaven both. A disappointment.

Pub Date: March 28, 1990

ISBN: 0618706410

Page Count: 256

Publisher: Houghton Mifflin

Review Posted Online: Oct. 2, 2011

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 15, 1990

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