Thanks for the excellent comments, as always! Food and fashion are two threads that ran through this section, along with the expected seasonal asides, watery ends, and withering descriptions.
Oh, and lots and lots of plot points came together this week as Iris’ tale gathered steam and we made the journey from the picnic to the honeymoon, with Alex intrigue, Freddie frights, and photo reveals along the way.
Amidst all the goodness, two lines stood out to me:
“I was still too young to be a believer in coincidence.” (190/blue)
“Such dismal feelings however do not often persist in the clear light of morning, when you are young.” (228/blue)
Not sure why these both hit home — except that they felt so true to the idea of a memoir, working through both your past and your present in the same moment.
Meandering tunes: Another song was added to The Blind Assassin Meander Playlist, along with a few recipes, perfect for some future The Blind Assassin dinner party. Oh and while I’m at it, what ever became of those dang blind assassins anyways?
From here to there: Let’s pass the halfway mark en masse and meet up at the end of “The houndstooth suit” in Section VII, found on page 298 (blue edition) where someone’s “Hesitating. Thinking, “How lost to myself I have become.”
Say pally, how’s this work again? Finish on time, comment each week, and stay in the hunt for a free “I Survived The Blind Assassin Meander” magnet. Oh, and in case you were wondering: This is the post for comments on Chapters 6.1 (“The houndstooth suit”) through 7.3 (“Postcards from Europe”).
Huh, on Kindle those lines conclude “The Fire Pit” (57%, just before “Postcards from Europe”).
Spoiler-ish alert: If you haven’t finished this part of the meander, you might not want to read this comment further.
I was enjoying those deliciously snarky letters to professors when it suddenly took a serious turn a page or so later. Whoa.
I’m having a hard time meandering with all those nuggets that make you want to keep reading to find out what she means, what happened. The bit about the lawyer in Steamer Trunk ch: “Or not my real lawyer. The one I used to consider mine, the one who handled that business with Richard, who battled Winifred so heroically, though in vain….”
Fire Pit: “I tried to recall the sound of my footsteps, in winter boots on the dry creaking snow, walking quickly home, late, concocting excuses…My uncalm heart, my breath unscrolling, white smoke in the freezing air. The hectic warmth of my fingers; the rawness of my mouth under my fresh lipstick.”
What a great writer she is.
I caught this line in the reading (sorry, I’m not really noting pages) “Does she want the whole picture?” And I thought of the photo that Laura had cut apart. But I’m also thinking more and more about how much we already know about how things end up.
I’m reminded of so many Vonnegut novels in which he tells the ending basically at the start and you find yourself discovering that the path to get there was so unpredictable that you feel as if you did not know how it would end.
I have a strong sense that much of what we “know” right now is wrong. Or at least, like the characters at the center of TBA – one who cannot tell all she knows & one who is quite adept but cannot see – we have a terribly incomplete sense of what is happening & has happened
OK, I think I no longer want to have a beer with Iris.
This book is brutal. I find myself being lulled into enjoying the creativity of the descriptive language, or the twists of the plot, when I’m stabbed by the violence against girls and women that menaces us throughout the text. “He’d had a habit of putting his hand on the back of my neck – resting it there, just keeping it there lightly while he conducted the summing up. Summing up was what judges did before a case went to the jury.”
I’m with The Other Susan on the brutality of this book. There’s always some punch, literary or otherwise, around the corner or on the next page. Adding Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” to the playlist sounds appropriate this week, especially when you consider the “outer space” reference in the song’s second stanza.
I totally agree with The other Susan about the brutality. It is dangerous to turn the page. Because suddenly I stumble into the most different variations of cruelty: physical, mental, social. And it becomes more and more unlikely that Laura is the protagonist of the book within the book.
By the way: I can’t stop reading. In the beginning I was not sure if I would manage to read that much in a week while there are other books on my nightstand – but TBA got me.
I’m finding it hard to think about what to write about each week here as the language of this book is so expansive; it’s like MA says it all for me. Still enjoying it very much, still marveling at her exquisite prose. Still very unsure where it’s all leading, though agreed that it’s likely going to a very unexpected place.
This book completely has me under its spell. It is brutal as many stated. I agree. But would I put it down? Never.
I still like the separate yet intertwined stories. I think MA has a great feeling for how much of one story I can handle, then she switches and continues until it feels like it’s time to switch back.
Still a big fan of the descriptive language. I am rather aware of scents and smells (not always a great thing 😉 I don’t remember any other book that described and triggered that many olfactory memories.
(“…a brackish odor like a salt marsh at low tide: the dried fear of those who have gone before her.” Just, wow.)
I’ve given up having any expectations for this book and am content to go wherever it’s going to take me. I think Margaret Atwood, like Iris, has been at this long enough not to give a f**k what I think or want, and I respect her for that.
Also: Finding it funny that Toronto is perceived as the big, bad city here. I’ve never been, but in my mind it is cute and Canadian.
Brutal. Callous. Controlling. Sick. Nothing glass slipper or fairy tale about this section’s events. An urbane façade covering a barbaric reality. That’s my Campbell’s soup condensed version for this week.
Addition to the Playlist: Adele’s “Fire to the Rain”
Favorite section so far.
Thoroughly enjoyed the passage about the crystal aliens who visit earth, try to communicate with like ‘beings’ (eyeglasses, windowpanes), cannot do so, and conclude, “This planet contains many interesting relics of a once-flourishing but now-defunct civilization…The planet currently harbours only a variety of viscous green filigree and a large number of eccentrically shaped globules of semi-liquid mud, which are tumbled hither and thither by the erratic currents of the light…The shrill squeaks and resonant groans produced by these must be ascribed to frictional vibration, and should not be mistaken for speech.” There is a 50:50 probability this actually occurred.
Hither and thither.
Also, “The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date.” Makes you wonder about these TBA stories within stories, and MA herself.
Also also, entertained by Iris’ vitriolic letter responses to researchers seeking info on Laura. Not entertained by the causes of her bitterness – agree with The Other Susan about the constant pain experienced by the girls and women of TBA.
Loving Itto’s call out to the alien visitation and the notion that there is a 50:50 probability this actually occurred. Also the rest of Itto’s comment.
I’m enjoying the book but finding its brutality harder to get through than Handmaid’s Tale — which is, of course, objectively worse. I think it’s because in HT the awfulness is in the future, and in the back of your mind you are wondering/hoping about what can be done to prevent that fate. No such luck here.
Sad is a woman’s life:
“She walks along the street, hoping she looks like a woman entitled to be walking along the street.”
“He doubts the evening doings are her idea. Too fast, for one thing – the guy’s in and out like a bank robber. She has drudge written all over her; she probably stares at the ceiling, thinks about mopping the floor.”
“Built like a brick shithouse. That used to be said about women. It was meant as a compliment, in the days when not everyone had a brick shit-house; only wooden ones, flimsy and smelly and easy to push over.”
The language and vulgarity are becoming more cruel, methinks, but no less poetic.
Agree. The timelines are mysterious, and each of the characters is skewed and shrouded. Great composing structure. The more that is unfolded about the characters, the more that is erased. Atwood wrote the great line about the diary that one should write with the right-hand while simultaneously erasing with the left. Smart.
But a burger? Or a gin, perhaps? 😉
Yah, it’s getting into a new layer of filth and creepiness which is difficult to stomach in some sections. The tasteless thoughts, gross treatment, and demeaning actions toward the women are as ugly as wire, especially because they are so starkly juxtaposed with such precision in the writing.
There’s an undercarriage to this narrative that is as interesting as Walter’s old, sagging, broken springs truck. Between Alex’s socialist ideology, Richard’s economic Nazi sympathizing, and Port Ticonderoga’s/Button Factory’s capitalistic sensibility (and then in a wild, fresh turn, the Blind Assassin’s sudden altruism), I think we’re in for an interesting ride. Aside from the raw brutality, I’m getting an unsettled hint of Ayn Rand’s styel.
The seemingly casual comment about Richard resting his hand on Iris’ neck as he “summed up” the day also jumped out at me, as it brought to mind an observation a female friend made many many years ago about men who walk with their hand clamped on their girlfriend’s/partner’s/wife’s neck–specifically, that it’s a classic move of an insecure, and likely cruel, a**hole. Sadly, it’s like a seeing an orange car–it surprises you the first time, but then you start seeing orange cars everywhere. I’ve seen this move enough in the wild to be convinced that there’s a type of man who does this. And yes, Richard is one of those men. Am pretty sure after this section that things are going to get darker fast.
Every comment this week is a gem. I want a like button, or one that signals enthusiastic agreement.
I’ll note the “Toronto High Noon Gossip” section, describing the season’s *third* charity costume ball, in which *three* lavish ballrooms were transformed into a “‘stately pleasure dome’ of compelling brilliance.” In 1936.
I’ll also note that a defining feature of these meander/deathmarch books is that the further I get into the story, the more I feel like when I finish I’ll need to go back to the beginning and start all over to understand all that I missed on the first go-round.
And finally, let me add that I wasn’t sure whether to use “further” or “farther” in the sentence above, so I looked it up. The Merriam-Webster dictionary online gives us the following introduction to their discussion of the question: “Everyone, no matter how erudite and well-schooled, has occasional doubts about certain words. We may not break out in flop sweat when forced to choose between exigent (“requiring immediate aid or action”) and exiguous (“inadequate”), but we tend to look up the words in question so as to not have the cold tendrils of lexical doubt wrapped around our neck. A quick trip to a dictionary and, presto, the problem is solved.”
Thanks The Same Mike!
This week, I found myself thinking back to the photo of Laura described early in the book, her blonde blankness like a canvas primed for projection. In the sci-fi story-within-a-story the maiden’s muteness is growing more conspicuous to me, too. The dead can’t talk, so Laura’s book is said to speak for her. Of course, readers use the content to write and overwrite who Laura was, what her life was. Now Iris is speaking for Laura, who she was, what she said and did. That trunk of notebooks made me suspicious. She never refers to them as Laura’s.
Beyond the superficial pulp and cheesiness, there’s a certain power and value in science fiction. It can be easier to see the shape, absurdity, and cruelty of the narratives that dictate our lives and drive our decisions, to express those narratives, and to conceal them through the hyperbolic and strange.
Agreed with everyone else, brutal section this week, and MA manages to startle on nearly every page. Lots of great passages quoted this week. One little exchange that stood out to me, between the unnamed storyteller and woman was:
“I’m sorry, but I’ve been under a strain. Where were we, I’ve forgotten.”
“He was deciding whether to cut her throat or love her forever.”
“Right. Yes. The usual choices.”
Not a whole lotta middle ground there!
BTW, there was a section from last week in which Iris and Laura discover Alex’s notebook in his attic room after they help him escape, and were wondering if they’d find a farewell note inside. Instead they found a list of nonsense words, wondering if it’s code or something. Anyway, the last word on the list is “zycron” — which becomes the name of the planet in the sci-fi story-within-a-story.
Until next time!
I figure Winifred chose Iris’s costume as the Abyssinian maid. I was curious what the get-up may have looked like, and turns out the Maid lights the imagination of the poet in Coleridge’s Kubla Kahn.
Gosh darn it, am getting behind but will catch up soon!
Sure, if you think BIG FOOT is cute. (oh and Big Foot aside, it is a lovely city, as is fairly-nearby Victoria — both highly recommended for a drive up north when the world has turned round sufficiently)
OK, so hypothetically-named Neil has reminded me that Toronto is many things but it is not Vancouver. But can I say: Big Foot also enjoys the hockey hall of fame, and the fine dining available on King Street.
I liked the description of the story teller coming up with possible turns for the arctic alien pulp he was writing, it reminded me of Kilgore Trout synopses. Descriptions of stories within stories within a story is nice layering which doesn’t get old for me. It’s interesting to try and learn more about Laura based on what she’s having her character do.
I’ve been wondering if the story within the story was written by Alex rather than Laura, or by Iris. Such a tease to mention the trunk…I want to break in and open it up!
just in under the wire–catching up but not as far along as most of you!
I will have a gin gimlet with anyone!
OKAY- gotta post my fav Iris quote of the week – ‘They must think of me as a fusty old dragon crouched on an ill gotten horde – some gaunt dog –in – the manger, some desiccated, censorious wardress, a prim-lipped keeper of the keys, guarding the dungeon in which starved Laura is chained to the wall.
That’s an amazing sentence.
“Desiccated, censorious wardress” is a lot of high-priced vocabulary in one place.
I am probably guiltier of talking like a book even than most people on this meander, and I can’t recall ever using either “exigent” or “exiguous.” But at least I know what they mean now.
Reading – progressing – will get there eventually
can confirm! jim i never have heard you say either (but i can imagine it!)
i have some suspicions about images vs narrative but am so far behind i will reserve comment for now
if you gaze back down the meandering trail and squint your eyes that little semblance of a puff of dust that’s me, andering
Present…
So many great limes. He ate the hamburger in one bite, like he was mailing it… finding the mike markers hard to track on kindle still – houndstooth cost chapter is in section VI… it’s like reading several books at once but not controlling which you pick up when. Challenging but mostly worth it.
Lines ;). I wish there were more limes in mid century Canada but alas…
Agree with this: love how descriptions of smells and taste appear everywhere (even when describing a voice).