Vivid characters caught in a repressive regime fuel this powerful novel.
A military dictatorship fragments a family in this short novel by the late Uruguayan writer Benedetti (1920-2009; Blood Pact, 1997, etc.), originally published in 1982 and translated into English for the first time.
Santiago sits indefinitely in a Uruguayan prison because of his political activism while his wife, Graciela, and their 9-year-old daughter, Beatriz, have lived in exile for the past five years. He exchanges long letters with Graciela and thinks wistfully that “the only proof of god’s existence are Graciela’s legs.” Readers might wonder where he gets all the paper—the letters are that long—and nothing in them seems to catch the attention of the censors. Benedetti explores the pain of separation from loved ones, the mix of loneliness, hope and despair in a man who has no idea when he'll be released. Santiago's father, Don Rafael believes that memories of the family may be keeping his son alive. But the confinement will destroy what they have, because, as Graciela says, “The fact is, I don’t need Santiago anymore.” Prison changes both husband and wife, but her letters do not reveal that she has drifted out of love. Perhaps, she thinks, she is falling in love with Santiago’s best friend and fellow leftist, Rolando. She daydreams only of Rolando but she can’t bring herself to break the news to Santiago while he is still in prison, as it would destroy him. “I still love him as a wonderful friend,” she confides to the sympathetic Don Rafael, “a comrade whose behaviour has been beyond reproach.” The language is often beautifully expressive, as when Don Rafael reflects that one day his son “will have to see Graciela through the bars of another man’s love.” Beatriz adds her own childlike insights, perhaps reflecting a cognitive disability, noting for example that “freedom is a huge word” that “means many things” such as liberty, but her father is at Liberty Prison, which confuses her. One day Uruguay will be transformed, Don Rafael believes, “born in the backroom of the forbidden,” but “we’ll never again be what we were.” This powerful novel evokes the works of Gabriel García Márquez.
Vivid characters caught in a repressive regime fuel this powerful novel.Pub Date: April 30, 2019
ISBN: 978-1-62097-490-2
Page Count: 192
Publisher: The New Press
Review Posted Online: Feb. 3, 2019
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 15, 2019
BOOK REVIEW
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
Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.
A retelling of ancient Greek lore gives exhilarating voice to a witch.
“Monsters are a boon for gods. Imagine all the prayers.” So says Circe, a sly, petulant, and finally commanding voice that narrates the entirety of Miller’s dazzling second novel. The writer returns to Homer, the wellspring that led her to an Orange Prize for The Song of Achilles (2012). This time, she dips into The Odyssey for the legend of Circe, a nymph who turns Odysseus’ crew of men into pigs. The novel, with its distinctive feminist tang, starts with the sentence: “When I was born, the name for what I was did not exist.” Readers will relish following the puzzle of this unpromising daughter of the sun god Helios and his wife, Perse, who had negligible use for their child. It takes banishment to the island Aeaea for Circe to sense her calling as a sorceress: “I will not be like a bird bred in a cage, I thought, too dull to fly even when the door stands open. I stepped into those woods and my life began.” This lonely, scorned figure learns herbs and potions, surrounds herself with lions, and, in a heart-stopping chapter, outwits the monster Scylla to propel Daedalus and his boat to safety. She makes lovers of Hermes and then two mortal men. She midwifes the birth of the Minotaur on Crete and performs her own C-section. And as she grows in power, she muses that “not even Odysseus could talk his way past [her] witchcraft. He had talked his way past the witch instead.” Circe’s fascination with mortals becomes the book’s marrow and delivers its thrilling ending. All the while, the supernatural sits intriguingly alongside “the tonic of ordinary things.” A few passages coil toward melodrama, and one inelegant line after a rape seems jarringly modern, but the spell holds fast. Expect Miller’s readership to mushroom like one of Circe’s spells.
Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.Pub Date: April 10, 2018
ISBN: 978-0-316-55634-7
Page Count: 400
Publisher: Little, Brown
Review Posted Online: Jan. 22, 2018
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2018
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