The Blind Assassin
I first attempted to read The Blind Assassin a few years ago. But then I hit an epic reading slump and abandoned it in the hopes that something lighter or faster would help me get back in the habit of reading. It took me over a month to actually finish a book and nearly two years to return to this one. But I finally did. And I had to laugh when I managed to read in a single day what it had previously taken me nearly a week to muddle through.
Like the MaddAddam trilogy, this book alternates between past and present. Between two different stories and two seemingly different points of view that are ultimately revealed to be the same. I enjoy this structure, though I found myself preferring the book-within-a-book to Iris' reflections on her youth and life. But that's just the sci-fi fan in me.
The Blind Assassin is ultimately a tragedy. The story of a woman who has reached the end of her life to discover that she is deeply unhappy and is wondering where it all went wrong. I take a perverse sort of comfort in this theme, which is common across all the of the Atwood books I've read thus far. I will never be like these women, I tell myself as I watch their lives unfold with a sort of guilty voyeurism. I will never be this unhappy. How could I be? I'm not that unhappy now, and all of these women, or whom Iris is merely my most recent example, were deeply unhappy and unsatisfied for their entire lives. They are full of regrets and things unsaid and paths untaken. Cautionary tales I can learn from so as not to repeat their mistakes.
That's not to say I don't identify with these characters. Sometimes a sentence will stop me in my tracks and I realize how universal certain problems can be. But I still view them through a remove. Perhaps it's a generational thing, or just that I'm a product of a slightly different culture than Atwood. I was never trapped in these catch-22 situations, sacrificing bits of myself for others. I was always encouraged to put me health and happiness first, and perhaps that's why I view these stories with a sort of horror. That will never be me, I think, secretly fearing that it's exactly what my old age has in store.
Like the MaddAddam trilogy, this book alternates between past and present. Between two different stories and two seemingly different points of view that are ultimately revealed to be the same. I enjoy this structure, though I found myself preferring the book-within-a-book to Iris' reflections on her youth and life. But that's just the sci-fi fan in me.
The Blind Assassin is ultimately a tragedy. The story of a woman who has reached the end of her life to discover that she is deeply unhappy and is wondering where it all went wrong. I take a perverse sort of comfort in this theme, which is common across all the of the Atwood books I've read thus far. I will never be like these women, I tell myself as I watch their lives unfold with a sort of guilty voyeurism. I will never be this unhappy. How could I be? I'm not that unhappy now, and all of these women, or whom Iris is merely my most recent example, were deeply unhappy and unsatisfied for their entire lives. They are full of regrets and things unsaid and paths untaken. Cautionary tales I can learn from so as not to repeat their mistakes.
That's not to say I don't identify with these characters. Sometimes a sentence will stop me in my tracks and I realize how universal certain problems can be. But I still view them through a remove. Perhaps it's a generational thing, or just that I'm a product of a slightly different culture than Atwood. I was never trapped in these catch-22 situations, sacrificing bits of myself for others. I was always encouraged to put me health and happiness first, and perhaps that's why I view these stories with a sort of horror. That will never be me, I think, secretly fearing that it's exactly what my old age has in store.
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