the edible woman

margaret atwood's breakthrough novel and protofeminist treatise considers gender roles and societal expectations in the late 1960s through the metaphors of the hunt, consumption, and cannibalism.

i talked to idris about this book a little bit, and he compared its subject matter to jane austen's discussion of marriage as the realm within which women were ambitious in the early 19th century: it was a matter of survival and was approached almost as career decisions are now. in fact, connecting those dots - austen's elizabeth bennett to ibsen's nora helmer to atwood's marian to me - can induce vertigo! life has changed so much for western women in just two centuries. and - as a cause, effect, and effect of the same cause - for men, too.

in the final analysis, i struggled with this novel. unsurprisingly, the writing itself was lovely in its rhythmic oscillation from poetic description and metaphor to concrete colloquial prose. but when the protagonist, marian, loses it a little bit, her actions aren't nearly as inexplicable as the reactions of others to her. in fact, almost everyone but marian comes across as symbolic rather than real. this isn't a complaint, exactly - after all, most of us view the minor characters in our lives as largely representational rather than authentic. i also found myself wondering if even compensating with the requisite inflation that comes with metaphor, there might be some hyperbole going on. but this is common for me: i have to confess that i really can't fathom what these women went through, both inside and outside their heads. and this journey into one such woman's mind was disorienting and somewhat unsatisfying for me. i wasn't entirely happy with some of her decisions, and i didn't know how i felt about how it all ended. that sort of thing.

this is only the second atwood i've ever read - i finally read "alias grace" last year, and liked it quite a bit. i feel that she's telling important stories, stories that haven't been told before and are therefore mysterious - you really have no clue where it's all heading. it's not always the most enjoyable experience, but it's unfailingly interesting and thought-provoking. and a little humbling. after all, being reminded that there are so many stories unlike my own really puts things into perspective.

beatrice & virgil

i loved life of pi, so i was all but terrified to pick up yann martel's latest novel, beatrice & virgil. what if it was disappointing?

well, the good news is that it is very, very well written. i'm just not sure how i feel about the story itself. the narrative turns on the question of how and why the holocaust should be depicted in art, and how and why it can be used as a lens of analysis for other tragedies. throw in a talking mounted donkey named beatrice and a talking mounted monkey named virgil and we've got ourselves a story!

the animals appear in a play written by one of the central characters. this man, a taxidermist by trade, writes beckett-esque dialogues in which the donkey and monkey consider the essence of a pear, the uselessness of language, and the degree to which memory is vital.

the use of animals, the description of the pear, and countless phrases of martel's are simply breathtaking. when he describes a room as being "full of adjectives," i just want to hug the book to my chest and let the beauty soak into me by osmosis.

but... like, the ending is terribly odd. the reveal is inelegant and the main character's realizations don't feel natural or follow an organic trajectory. there's an episode of outright melodrama that seems entirely unnecessary.

this book hasn't yet helped me answer its central question, which is one i've wondered about before. i don't know what to think about it.

here's what martel has to say:



i may finally read dante now.