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THE WIND THAT LAYS WASTE

Name: THE WIND THAT LAYS WASTE
Author: Selva Almada
ISBN: 978-1-55597-845-7

by Selva Almada ; translated by Chris Andrews ‧ RELEASE DATE: July 9, 2019

A welcome new voice in Latin American storytelling.

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Sturm und Drang on the pampas.

Argentinian fiction writer and poet Almada makes her English-language debut with a slender tale redolent of Flannery O’Connor—and, at some turns, Rod Serling. An itinerant preacher, one of those hands-on, evil-spirits-out kind, is on the road with his 16-ish daughter, her mother a long-distant memory in the rear-view mirror. The daughter, Leni, is full of doubts, sheltering herself with a music player on which she’s promised dad to “listen to Christian music, nothing else,” but instead has been catching hints of the bigger world outside. When their car breaks down, the Rev. Pearson and Leni wind up in El Gringo Brauer’s garage. If the Rev. is a fire-and-brimstone true believer, Brauer is just as dedicated an atheist: “Religion was for women and the weak,” he thinks. Meanwhile, his assistant, a motherless boy about Leni’s age named Tapioca, is proving susceptible to the preacher’s blandishments. “Now he was thinking that perhaps he should have warned the kid about the stories in the Bible,” thinks Brauer—since, after all, “It wouldn’t be so easy to get that stuff about God out of his head.” If Leni would just as soon be dancing to disco music, Tapioca is ready to follow the Rev. Pearson out of the backwater and see the world, joining the crusade. Brauer objects, naturally. Well, what are the angels of good and evil supposed to do? Wrestle with each other, of course, in an apocalyptic rainstorm of a kind that levels crops, knocks down power poles, and fries someone with righteous lightning. Almada’s story, fueled by alcohol, religious symbolism, and doubt, feels a touch incomplete; she might have given a little more space to the things that make each character tick. Still, the story packs a punch in its portraits of a man who exalts heaven and another who protests, “I don’t have time for that stuff” while confused youngsters watch and wait.

A welcome new voice in Latin American storytelling.

Pub Date: July 9, 2019

ISBN: 978-1-55597-845-7

Page Count: 136

Publisher: Graywolf

Review Posted Online: April 13, 2019

Kirkus Reviews Issue: May 1, 2019

Categories:

LITERARY FICTION

- BOOK REVIEW
NOT A RIVER
by Selva Almada ; translated by Annie McDermott

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THE HANDMAID'S TALE

by Margaret Atwood ‧ RELEASE DATE: Feb. 17, 1985

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

Categories:

LITERARY FICTION

- BOOK REVIEW
FOURTEEN DAYS
edited by Margaret Atwood & Douglas Preston

- BOOK REVIEW
OLD BABES IN THE WOOD
by Margaret Atwood

- BOOK REVIEW
BURNING QUESTIONS
by Margaret Atwood

- PERSPECTIVES
Appreciations: Margaret Atwood’s Novel The Handmaid’s Tale Turns 30

- SEEN & HEARD
Nan A. Talese, Legendary Publisher, Is Retiring

- BOOK TO SCREEN
Teasers Drop for ‘Shadow and Bone,’ Other Films

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THE SECRET HISTORY

by Donna Tartt ‧ RELEASE DATE: Sept. 16, 1992

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The Brat Pack meets The Bacchae in this precious, way-too-long, and utterly unsuspenseful town-and-gown murder tale. A bunch of ever-so-mandarin college kids in a small Vermont school are the eager epigones of an aloof classics professor, and in their exclusivity and snobbishness and eagerness to please their teacher, they are moved to try to enact Dionysian frenzies in the woods. During the only one that actually comes off, a local farmer happens upon them—and they kill him. But the death isn't ruled a murder—and might never have been if one of the gang—a cadging sybarite named Bunny Corcoran—hadn't shown signs of cracking under the secret's weight. And so he too is dispatched. The narrator, a blank-slate Californian named Richard Pepen chronicles the coverup. But if you're thinking remorse-drama, conscience masque, or even semi-trashy who'll-break-first? page-turner, forget it: This is a straight gee-whiz, first-to-have-ever-noticed college novel—"Hampden College, as a body, was always strangely prone to hysteria. Whether from isolation, malice, or simple boredom, people there were far more credulous and excitable than educated people are generally thought to be, and this hermetic, overheated atmosphere made it a thriving black petri dish of melodrama and distortion." First-novelist Tartt goes muzzy when she has to describe human confrontations (the murder, or sex, or even the ping-ponging of fear), and is much more comfortable in transcribing aimless dorm-room paranoia or the TV shows that the malefactors anesthetize themselves with as fate ticks down. By telegraphing the murders, Tartt wants us to be continually horrified at these kids—while inviting us to semi-enjoy their manneristic fetishes and refined tastes. This ersatz-Fitzgerald mix of moralizing and mirror-looking (Jay McInerney shook and poured the shaker first) is very 80's—and in Tartt's strenuous version already seems dated, formulaic. Les Nerds du Mal—and about as deep (if not nearly as involving) as a TV movie.