The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood: 4.5

The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

This is, indeed, a pretty amazing book.

I was young when it came out, too young to be reading novels like this, so I missed it then. I’ve heard about it, though; in fact, I can’t remember a time before I heard about it- it was always ubiquitous, in the background, taken for granted. It never therefore occurred to me to read it, because I never paid attention to it, never consciously realized it as an option.

Rather ironic, given the nature of the main character, the narrator, one who has been stripped of identity and human existence.

And given the nature of the story itself, bringing to light the cultural assumptions we don’t even realize we have- like the light bulb we never think about until it goes out, or starts flickering. It’s not as if we don’t know there is a light bulb; we just have never thought about it before, because it was always there.

“Once you learn to discern the voice of Mother Culture humming in the background, telling her story over and over again to the people of your culture, you’ll never stop being conscious of it. Wherever you go for the rest of your life, you’ll be tempted to say to the people around you, ‘How can you listen to this stuff and not recognize it for what it is?’”

Daniel Quinn, Ishmael

The Handmaid’s Tale is powerful and probing and well-done. I won’t say it’s profound- it isn’t, although the questions it raises are- but it’s very good at revealing human-ness and underlying issues. It makes you think, and pay attention.

It reminds me of Orwell’s 1984:

“Never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty and then we shall fill you with ourselves.”

but also V for Vendetta:

“Beneath this mask there is more than flesh. Beneath this mask there is an idea, Mr. Creedy, and ideas are bulletproof.”

It also brings to mind the very real stories of Nazi Germany, Soviet Russia, South Africa under Apartheid, and many others, some of which are still unfolding around us- including our own.

Our own story, the one we write, is the one we have the most say over. We should be paying more attention. Works of art like this bring culture to our attention, into a place where we can think and talk about it.

Art destroys silence. /Dmitri Shostakovich

From The Handmaid's Tale:

Not a dandelion in sight here, the lawns are picked clean. I long for one, just one, rubbishy and insolently random and hard to get rid of and perennially yellow as the sun. Cheerful and plebeian, shining for all alike. Rings, we would make from them, and crowns and necklaces, stains from the bitter milk on our fingers. (p. 275-6)

I feel this way. I don’t have the particular problem of being denied access to dandelions, as I let them grow and they will always grow if you let them. But this description, this is why I love dandelions, too. They are my favorite flower. They are free and glorious and come complete with crowns and wishes, salad and tea.

Sometimes I look around the city and am overwhelmed with the wish for dandelions everywhere- bursting forth from cracks in the sidewalks, between concrete steps, along the sides of the roads where asphalt meets the curb. Forests of dandelions, knee-high, shoulder-high, rising up, sundering all.

Sandburg wrote, “I am the grass, let me work.” The grass will bury the dead, subsume the ghosts, restore innocence to the world.

I respect the grass. (I grok grass.) But I think something wilder is needed this time around. Something that we won’t simply tame and use to our advantage, so as to feel even more like gods- something that, instead, will untame us. Slip us out of culture and dogma and back into childhood and possibility and the joy of just being human. I think we need dandelions.