All is fair in love and war, as the old saying goes, and our work is surely situated somewhere between the two.
Yeah, this is the book I wanted Hey, Zoey to be-- a thoughtful meditation on the ethics of sex robots as AI becomes increasingly intelligent. What does this mean for the robots? What does this mean for "real" women?
With the exception of, I think, a weak and odd ending, The Hierarchies gives a pretty good examination of the above questions. Sylv.ie is a robot created for her husband's pleasure. Impossibly beautiful, programmed to serve, unfailingly obedient... until she isn't. Until she starts to question the life she has and those who have control over her. Until she realises she is not ready to accept what she has been forced into without her consent.
Sylv.ie is seen as a sex toy by many men of the novel, but many "born" women also hate these new "created" women, for a variety of reasons. Some clear-- such as them leading their husbands astray and making a mockery of what they think it means to be a woman --and some more vague and tied into the politics of this strange dystopian world where the story is set.
"How hard it must be, to be a Born woman," Mais.ie says philosophically. "Imagine playing a game where the main rule was that you had to lose every time."
There is a very discomfiting part of this book when the naked robots are being tossed around and having new vaginas fitted by male workers who obviously see them as just pieces of plastic. Something about this particular scene called to mind Bazterrica's Tender is the Flesh and the way the characters there disassociated themselves from the humans they were farming.
While plenty of stuff does happen in this book, some of it dramatic and horrible (warning for sexual assault/rape), I would primarily describe it as a philosophical book that explores the nature of personhood, fear of technology, and exploitation.
“I was forced to acknowledge too late, much too late, that I too had loved, that I was capable of suffering, and that I was human after all.”
4 1/2
“I was forced to acknowledge too late, much too late, that I too had loved, that I was capable of suffering, and that I was human after all.”
4 1/2 stars. Wow. This tiny, disquieting book carries a sadness that the most popular tearjerkers could never hope to capture.
It sits outside of genre, outside of time, outside of the reality we know, introducing the reader to a world unfamiliar to both them and the unnamed protagonist. The result is a palpable feeling of wonder and loneliness.
I have decided to round up because this book made me feel so deeply, and because I have decided that my personal frustrations are perhaps misguided. There were things that I was hoping for from this book that I didn't get, but then I was never promised them, and, in fact, the past tense narration forewarned I would not get them. So that's my problem.
The story starts in an underground bunker where thirty-nine women and one young girl-- our narrator --are imprisoned in a cage. They don't remember how they got there and they have no idea why they are there. The women remember a life before the cage with families, friends and jobs, but the child remembers only their current existence. They are watched over and fed by male guards who tell them nothing. It seems they are doomed to live and die in this cage... until one day a combination of chance and ingenuity provide an opportunity for freedom.
It is part eerie pastoral dystopia, part a deeply introspective novel about hope, loneliness and the things that give life meaning. The novel swings between the invigorating feeling of hope and the numbing despair of hopelessness.
I found myself wondering at one point if it was supposed to be a metaphor. (view spoiler)[The relentless pursuit of answers, of meaning, in a world that ultimately makes no sense. (hide spoiler)] But perhaps I am overthinking things.
Either way, this short novel sat like a ball of anxiety in my throat from beginning to end. What a sad, evocative little story....more
I know things that don’t fit with their narrative of what the Community ‘stands for’. I know things that they have worked extremely hard to suppres
I know things that don’t fit with their narrative of what the Community ‘stands for’. I know things that they have worked extremely hard to suppress. I know where the skeletons are.
I think the story behind this book is incredibly powerful. While I've read a lot of books about cults, this one was quite unique in its approach and extremely convincing. Where it fell down, I felt, was in the decision to write the book as Emilia's biography of her mother. This format made the book dry at times, and dragged out parts of the story, especially in the middle.
The Silence Project tells the story of Rachel and how one day she set up a tent at the bottom of her garden and never spoke again. Over time, more women are drawn to the silent Rachel and inspired by her message to give up speaking in favour of listening. What starts as the musings of one woman becomes a multinational movement of good intentions warring with power abuses.
I think Hailey really captures the many different facets of how cults are formed: a combination of genuine do-gooders searching for a better world, vulnerable people in need of a community and, of course, opportunists taking advantage. Most books about cults leave me shaking my head in wonder at how this ideology was allowed to take hold and attract so many fervent believers, but Hailey explains it perfectly. I saw exactly how and why this happened. It felt true.
To come back to the biography aspect, though, this is what really prevented the book from receiving a higher rating from me. As Emilia is publishing a book explaining what happened, the tone is formal and sometimes academic leading to passages like this:
In their ground-breaking and controversial study Community, Cult, Culture (Global Press, 2018), Dr Sara Lenz and Professor Melanie Overbury explore how pre-Event symbolism came to assume a ritual significance to the post-Event Community.
Not all of the book is like this. The parts earlier on where Emilia shares her pain over her mother pulling away from her when she needed her most are gripping.
But far too much of the middle stretch is dry and boring. After the first third or so, Emilia rarely pulls us inside her head, instead narrating the sequence of events at an emotional distance....more
3 1/2 stars. For a while I thought this was going to be a solid five stars because the opening was so strong-- bloody, nasty and compelling. In fact, 3 1/2 stars. For a while I thought this was going to be a solid five stars because the opening was so strong-- bloody, nasty and compelling. In fact, parts of this book were awesome. The social commentary and criticism of the prison system were excellent and hard-hitting (though arguably the real world criticism got a little lost in this dystopian narrative). The fight scenes were horrific but impossible to look away from.
I think the book's main weakness was the choice to flit around between so many characters. Thurwar and Staxxx were interesting to me; not all the others were. It is not surprising to hear that Adjei-Brenyah is primarily a short story writer, as some of the chapters seemed like short stories themselves and often took me out of the flow of the main storyline.
I also wanted something more from the ending, though I agree a book like this is a tough one to wrap up. To be honest, I was confused as to what happened right there at the end. (view spoiler)[Did they both die? Was Thurwar still alive? (hide spoiler)] I found it difficult to follow....more
I can see why people compared the rise of Donald Trump to the rise of Buzz Windrip in It Can't Happen Here. The similarities, especially in the earlieI can see why people compared the rise of Donald Trump to the rise of Buzz Windrip in It Can't Happen Here. The similarities, especially in the earlier chapters, are almost comical. What isn't funny, is the very convincing way Lewis shows how fascism could easily grow in a country like America, with a demagogue slipping in and fanning the flames of bigotry amongst a poor people looking for answers to their problems.
Despite being anything but, Buzz Windrip positions himself as an everyman and gains favour by constantly preaching what he does not practice. For example, he earns votes from the Anti-Saloon League because:
“it was known that, though he drank a lot, Senator Windrip also praised teetotalism a lot, while his rival, Walt Trowbridge, though he drank but little, said nothing at all in support of the Messiahs of Prohibition.”
I only gave it three stars because, while I watched his rise intently and incredulously, I thought the endless exposition of Buzz's policies quickly grew tiresome. It explores an idea, but doesn't tell all that much of a tale, and Buzz himself is the single memorable character in the book (quite literally I have already forgotten the names of everyone else)....more
I can't do this one right now. I'm a big fan of the author's Kim Jiyoung but this wacky dystopia is not doing it for me. It reads like a seriDNF - 25%
I can't do this one right now. I'm a big fan of the author's Kim Jiyoung but this wacky dystopia is not doing it for me. It reads like a series of vignettes, snapshots of different characters and themes. And I think that last word there is key-- this is a story that focuses more on themes and ideas than on creating memorable characters and an engaging story.
I can see the capitalist critique emerging, which is not uninteresting, but I need something a bit more engaging and immersive at this moment....more
Rarely has a book given me so many mixed feelings as this one did. I'm still not 100% sure on my rating because I truly cannot decide how much I likedRarely has a book given me so many mixed feelings as this one did. I'm still not 100% sure on my rating because I truly cannot decide how much I liked this book.
My first impressions weren't great. You Could Be So Pretty felt dated and juvenile, calling to mind the kind of YA dystopias we saw everywhere in the early 2010s. The dystopian aspect featured the use of jarringly generic words like 'vanilla' to mean virgin, 'Invisibles' to mean older women supposedly past their prime and 'varnish' for Photoshop. Definitely not what I would have expected from Bourne.
It also gets very repetitive around the middle. A big chunk of the book is about Joni trying to convert Belle, and Belle questioning whether the Doctrine is really right, and this goes back and forth for a while, dragging the story out without going anywhere.
But, more than this, I had a massive question in my head for this entire book, one preventing me from fully accepting the premise and becoming immersed in it, and that question was finally answered by the last chapter... in a way I did not find wholly satisfying. I'll keep this vague to avoid spoilers, but my question was basically: pretty much everything that happens in this book happens in our world, so why stick in these new terms and pretend it's a dystopia?
Perhaps if you are a very young person or someone who has never really considered how unfair and stupid society is for women, that question won't be in your head this whole book and the last chapter will have the impact it's supposed to.
Looking back over the book I appreciate it a lot more than I did while reading it, which was a mostly confusing and frustrating experience. I think this book is very important for those who aren't well-versed in feminism and feminist-lit, and I'm sure there's a huge audience among young girls and-- one can dream --young boys. Still, I can't rate it any higher as that wouldn't reflect my experience with it....more
I blasted through this, just as I did with all the other Levin books I've read, but it is by far my least favourite (I am not reading Son of RosemaryI blasted through this, just as I did with all the other Levin books I've read, but it is by far my least favourite (I am not reading Son of Rosemary or Sliver so can't comment on those).
Rosemary's Baby, The Stepford Wives, The Boys from Brazil and A Kiss Before Dying were all great stories. Levin has this easy, informal way of spinning a yarn-- chapters that flow quickly into one another, good dialogue, and characters that capture your interest (both the protagonists and villains as horrendous as Josef Mengele.) I'd say this is the only one of the five that doesn't go down quite as easy.
It's partially the lack of a really great hero or villain to fear for or despise. This Perfect Day is set in a dystopian future where everyone is virtually the same-- looks similar, behaves in line with the society's rules, and doesn't do anything ludicrous like dream or imagine or make their own decisions. However, as with pretty much every dystopian ever, there is a secret resistance of those who have learned to avoid being dosed up with "treatments" and started to question the way things are.
It is the nature of this society for it to be cold, detached and uniform. No one stands out, including the protagonist, Chip. He spends a good portion of the book being a well-behaved zombie and the rest of the time being a touch of an arsehole. I'm not exaggerating. The guy's an actual (view spoiler)[rapist whose actions are excused by his victim because his behaviour is "natural". (hide spoiler)]
Then there's the fact that this kind of dystopia was a bit "been there, done that" back in the 70s when it published. Today? Seen it all before. ...more
I have always believed that in our capitalist, consumerist society, we devour each other. - Agustina Bazterrica
This story is really disturbing, and it
I have always believed that in our capitalist, consumerist society, we devour each other. - Agustina Bazterrica
This story is really disturbing, and it isn't until the very last page that it becomes clear just how deeply disturbing it is.
Tender Is the Flesh is an Argentinian import from an author who is apparently very popular in her own country. After reading this, dare I ask what other horrors she has created? This dystopian horror story is set in a world that feels so close to our own, except a zoonotic virus has made it so that all animals have had to be destroyed. To fill the gap in the meat market, people start to breed and farm humans for their meat.
It is as horrifying and gory as it sounds. Extra warning for those sensitive to scenes of sexual assault and animal cruelty. But while it is hard to stomach at times, I was morbidly fascinated by what Bazterrica had to say about the way humans take advantage of other humans because they can get away with it. The book is horribly convincing and believable. We only have to look to our own real world to recall the excuses humans have made to enslave other humans and to shuttle them off to extermination camps. It does not take a huge suspension of disbelief to imagine the events of this book could happen.
The book also focuses on the way language is used to make humans feel better about committing atrocities. No one is allowed to say "cannibalism" and the meat in the book is packaged as "special meat". There's some dark humour, too, with a few prods at the hypocrisy of humans being outraged by slavery at the same time as imprisoning and eating other humans.
It is told in third person limited and follows Marcos Tejo who works at a meat plant. He takes us through all the horrors involved with breeding, killing, flaying and packaging humans, whilst also dealing with the loss of his own infant son.
For such a bleak tale, it is surprisingly compelling. All the time while reading I was wondering what on earth the conclusion of this nightmare could leave us with, but I think it was even more effective than I could have imagined....more
“Does this look like a dystopia to you?” The answer, implicit in the man’s question, was that a dystopia doesn’t look like anything; indeed, that it
“Does this look like a dystopia to you?” The answer, implicit in the man’s question, was that a dystopia doesn’t look like anything; indeed, that it can look like anywhere else.
I foresee a lot of very different reviews for this book. Largely because it is really three books in one, with each book being very different in terms of style and genre. Their themes overlap-- colonialism, freedom, illness and disability, love, family, to name but a few --but it's unlikely most readers will enjoy each one equally.
In fact, each review I've read so far has had a different take on the book's strengths. Personally, I enjoyed books one and three a lot, and it was book two that dragged a bit.
I became deeply emotionally invested in the love story at the heart of the first book, as well as the exploration of feeling torn between one's duty to different people. This one is best described as historical fiction / alternate history. The protagonist is David and he lives in a 19th century New York City where being gay is accepted as completely normal. He is an odd, reserved, complex character whose only real companion is his beloved grandfather, who attempts to arrange a marriage for him with a wealthy older man called Charles. Despite David's efforts to like Charles, he instead falls madly in love with the poor, vibrant and enigmatic Edward.
The ending of this first story is left wondrously, infuriatingly ambiguous, which I know will annoy some readers. However, it hit just the right mysterious bittersweet spot for me.
The second book is set in 1993 against the backdrop of the AIDS epidemic and follows a different man named David who is married to a different older man named Charles (the same names and similar characters run through the whole of the novel). The first part of this book appealed to me more, when the author examined a relationship between two people from very different backgrounds. David is much poorer than Charles and this affects the relationship dynamic, sometimes causing problems between the two of them.
The second part of the second book is a letter from David's father in which he documents his life in Hawaii and the breakdown of his family. I'm not sure if it was the format, but I felt a bit removed from the events that occurred in this section of the book, which is why it was the slowest part for me to get through.
The last book is the longest and I didn't warm to it straight away, but, by the end, I came to really like it. One of the most interesting parts of To Paradise, for me, was the way we were introduced to characters (especially the first David, and Charlie in the last story) who really struggled socially. I felt for them so much and it hurt my heart when they longed for love, romance, whatever and either didn't know how to get it or feared they were being fooled. They felt intensely vulnerable and this made me care about them.
Book three is a dystopia, set in a future NYC where pandemic after pandemic rages, food and other goods are strictly rationed, and gay rights have once again been eroded. I enjoyed how this part moved back and forth between the present, told by Charlie, and the lead-up to it, unveiled by Charlie's grandfather.
Looking back over the whole book, I really enjoyed reading the majority of it. Yanagihara created a LOT of characters here and made me come to care for a good many of them. To be honest, I think this complex exploration of characters who were flawed, morally grey, trying their best,and socially awkward was what gave me the most satisfaction, not any overarching message that may or may not have been intended.
I'll be honest and say I do not fully understand what the author wanted to convey by having character names and similar situations repeated throughout these stories and I'm not convinced it was totally necessary.
Still, each day I reached eagerly for this 700+ page book, so that's an achievement in itself....more
Because I was such a big fan of The Hunger Games trilogy, I was determined to finish The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, but doing so took a LOT out of me. What a chore this book was! I now understand the disappointed and outraged reviews of others who read it first, but what I don't understand is how those people were still able to blast through this in a day or two. You guys are far tougher readers than I am.
I have to confess that I was initially enthusiastic about this book being told from Coriolanus Snow's perspective. I know it put some people off, but one of the few things I love more than a good villain is a good villain origin story. No, I didn't expect to sympathise with him, but could I understand how he'd gotten so messed up and evil? Well, maybe.
But... I don't think it works. For so many reasons, but a major one for me is that this book is so boring. So meandering, unfocused, dry. There's a lack of urgency and emotion. A lack of any connection with the characters outside of Snow, who is so self-serving and self-pitying that I couldn't even have fun hating him. I could not understand what we were reading for. I had no real questions that needed answering. This book added nothing to the Panem universe.
And the "romance" was just downright unpleasant.
The plot takes us back to the 10th Hunger Games, where Coriolanus Snow is assigned as the mentor to the district 12 candidate, Lucy Gray (whose songs are the one shining light in this novel). Coriolanus sees this as an opportunity to shake himself free of the hardships of the past and improve his social status. Lucy's potential victory becomes deeply-entwined with Coriolanus's own, and their relationship is a discomfiting mix of romantic feelings and him using her to achieve his own means.
But, still, while this is unpleasant, I don't think I am half as bothered by it as I am by how utterly dull the story is. I'm not so refined as to be above some trashy drama, but that's the thing: it's not dramatic. It's lifeless and cold. 90% of the plot exists inside Snow's head. He tells us about the supposed hardships he has had to endure, but we never really feel them. And something about his perspective makes every other character he encounters seem dull also.
A few others noted that this book picks up at the end, which is possibly the only thing that carried me through. It does, but I can also say it was far too little and far too late for me. I think the only good thing about my lack of connection with this book is that I can safely say I don't even consider this part of the same universe as the original trilogy. I can now go forget about it.
“Look around,” Kiersten says as she stares me dead in the eyes. “We are the only Gods here.”
4 1/2 stars. Wow. This book was hard to put down! And
“Look around,” Kiersten says as she stares me dead in the eyes. “We are the only Gods here.”
4 1/2 stars. Wow. This book was hard to put down! And the ending made me really emotional.
The Grace Year is such an exciting mix of horror, survival and the best of YA dystopias from 5-10 years back. It really is like a darker, more feminist version of The Hunger Games. I had a really busy week, but I looked for every opportunity possible to sit down with this book and get sucked back into this ugly patriarchal world. Nothing gets my blood pumping and the pages turning like a heavy dose of infuriating unfairness.
This is one of those rare novels where I think the fictional world actually benefits from some vague world-building. There is something very sinister and claustrophobic about the tiny oppressive world of Garner County, a feeling of wrongness about it, a feeling that you never know quite what is lurking beyond its edges.
In the county, girls are banished to the wilds during their sixteenth year - their "Grace Year" - in order to purge themselves of their dangerous "magic". This magic is said to be an ability to seduce men, lure them to sin and all manner of unsavory things. Once out in the wild, the girls need to survive the elements, evade the poachers who are looking to harvest their body parts, and just not kill each other. All are easier said than done, of course, and especially the latter.
“They can call it magic. I can call it madness. But one thing is certain. There is no grace here.”
You can compare this to many other works - The Hunger Games and Lord of the Flies being the most obvious - but it has a unique flavour that's all it's own.
It's dark and gory. It's very much a tale of survival against the odds. But what is so odd about The Grace Year is that it’s about women going wild, being jealous, viciously hurting each other, and yet it somehow manages to be a celebration of women and the ties between them. Mothers and daughters. Sisters. Friends. It's quite incredible how Liggett takes these women to their very worst so that we can eventually appreciate them at their best.
I loved the whole eating/cannibalism metaphor, too. How patriarchy works because it forces women into a position where they are enemies, and they have to devour one another to get ahead. Powerful, horrible, and all too true.
The only downside is how the characters all seem to default to white. The only girls whose physical appearances are described are pale and prone to blushing. It's a shame in a book which is otherwise so pro-woman and could easily have been remedied by describing characters with different skin colours.
So I thought this was excellent but I'm not sure how widely I'd recommend it. It's a quiet, odd, unsettling dystopian novel - my first from Swedish auSo I thought this was excellent but I'm not sure how widely I'd recommend it. It's a quiet, odd, unsettling dystopian novel - my first from Swedish author Karin Tidbeck - that opens up more questions than it answers. Pair this with the ambiguous ending and I can easily see why some readers might feel dissatisfied.
I actually really liked it, though. I found it an extremely atmospheric novel-- the greyness, the loneliness, the constant sense of wrongness about everything. On the back of the Vintage paperback, Matt Bell praises the author's imagination as being "fiercely strange", which I think is a fitting description of the whole book.
The story opens on a train, with government worker Vanja travelling to the colony of Amatka to do some consumer research on hygiene products. Vanja is assigned a household through a lottery, which is where she meets Nina, as well as two other housemates called Ivar and Ulla. Straight away, there's this feeling behind everything that something is not quite right. This feeling never goes away.
More strange things surface. The importance of language and naming things is a central theme, with all objects requiring labelling in order to maintain the very fabric of reality. As Vanja digs a little deeper, she notes the barrenness of the library; of texts missing their ending. The cold emptiness of this world is given moments of warmth by the burgeoning relationship between Vanja and Nina.
What emerges is an examination of a society of complete social equality, of communal living and strict adherence to rules that benefit the group as a whole, sometimes at the expense of the individual. My takeaway was that when we are all reduced to the same, treated the same, as one part of a whole, we become little more than atoms. Pliable and interchangeable.
I suppose this is a critique of the kind of extreme socialism that cannot end well. I think. Maybe. It's not actually easy to tell whether this world is better or worse than the alternatives. Which is perhaps the most unsettling thing of all.
Only now do I see how dry his lips are. Not just dry but parched and chapped to the point of bleeding. None of these kids look right. Their skin is
Only now do I see how dry his lips are. Not just dry but parched and chapped to the point of bleeding. None of these kids look right. Their skin is thin and almost leprous gray. The corners of their mouths are white with dried spit. And the look in their eyes is almost rabid.
It's unsettling how utterly convincing this book is. Maybe it works so well because the concept is so relevant and believable - a severe drought in Southern California is hardly fantastical - but it also has a lot to do with the way the Shusterman duo writes.
In a style somewhat reminiscent of storytellers like Stephen King, the authors paint this dystopian picture slowly, gradually, introducing a fairly large cast of characters along the way. The horrors creep quietly into a world that very closely resembles our own, making them easy to believe in. What is first a subdued desire for water becomes a pressing need, which in turn becomes an obsessive frenzy.
You can tell a lot of thought has gone into how people would behave when their lives (or worse-- the lives of their families) become threatened by a lack of water. When the people in Dry become desperate, it’s amazing and terrible what can be seen as a source of water. And let me tell you: the authors and the characters in this book get VERY creative on that front.
Could we be so desperate for drinkable water that we're willing to destroy the very machines that could create it, just to get that first sip?
The way the characters are used to tell the story here might not suit everyone. The Shustermans bring in many different perspectives in order to capture all angles of the water craze rather than focusing on one or a few individuals. I can pinpoint the main characters as Alyssa, Kelton, Garrett and Jacqui (who is freaking awesome, by the way) but I would still say this is more a book about the bigger picture, which includes many people's perspectives across the course of the novel. The characters are left racially ambiguous, some described as "olive-skinned" but of indeterminate race.
It's a standalone and so a whole lot is covered in these 350 pages. We see how a survivalist family first thrives but then becomes a target; we see how kind neighbours become enemies; we see an entrepreneurial few try to capitalize on the new hot commodity; we see the ugliness that can quickly rear its head when people are desperate.
I thought it worked really well at creating a sense of desperation and paranoia. It made ME want to go stock up on emergency supplies (I swear I'm not even joking. I found myself on this page after reading it.) Very convincing and discomfiting.
I guess we can probably expect more of these weird feminist(?) dystopias in the wake of The Handmaid's Tale's Hulu series. Between this and the superhI guess we can probably expect more of these weird feminist(?) dystopias in the wake of The Handmaid's Tale's Hulu series. Between this and the superhero-movie-turned-superhero-book trend, you can pretty much predict the new book trends based on what's popular on the big and small screens.
Here, Zumas imagines a United States where the Personhood Amendment gives rights to unborn embryos, outlawing abortion and IVF (because said embryos cannot give consent). The Canadian government assist by erecting a figurative "Pink Wall" across the U.S.-Canadian border, meaning that they will capture and return any woman suspected of crossing the border for an abortion or IVF.
It sounded fascinating to me. Given the political climate in the U.S. and the fervor of pro-life advocates, it is not a particularly implausible scenario. But, unfortunately, the amount of "literary" frills in Red Clocks made it almost impossible to enjoy (maybe that isn't the right word, but you know what I'm saying).
It is such a painfully cerebral read, and it feels to me like a book of this kind has the greatest impact when you are pulled deep into the lives and horrors of the characters, not viewing them through a distant lens. Red Clocks would be a horror story for many women, including myself, and yet I felt so emotionally-distanced from the story and all four (or you could say five) perspectives.
I have to assume the emotional distance is intentional. Zumas refers to the four main characters as "The Biographer" (Ro), "The Wife" (Susan), "The Daughter" (Mattie) and "The Mender" (Gin), with the fifth perspective being that of fictional explorer, Eivør Minervudottir, who "The Biographer" is writing a book about.
Each of the main four are dealing with womanhood issues that are threatened by the new laws. Ro's perspective is easily the most palatable, though we still have to sit through a vaginal exam that unfolds like this:
On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the shrill funk of an elderly cheese and one being no odor at all, how would he rank the smell of the biographer's vagina? How does it compare with the other vaginas barreling through this exam room, day in, day out, years of vaginas, a crowd of vulvic ghosts? Plenty of women don't shower beforehand, or are battling a yeast, or just happen naturally to stink in the nethers. Kalbfleisch has sniffed some ripe tangs in his time.
Yum.
Ro is trying desperately to conceive before a new law is introduced banning single parent families. Susan is something of a cliche depressed housewife, struggling with the dissatisfaction of staying home. Mattie is a teenager, pregnant, and unsure of what to do. Gin provides herbal remedies for abortion, amongst other things, and is the modern-day equivalent of a witch under the new amendment.
Zumas experiments with different styles that change as we jump from one character to another. The narrative is fractured and messy - definitely more about experimental writing than telling a compelling and/or important story. I appreciate that this will be better suited to the kind of reader I am not.
Overall, I felt the book was more concept and writing than characters and narrative structure. It really depends on what you're looking for, but I would personally expect a book with this intriguing a premise to contain a strong emotional pull and more of a plot. Oh well. I'm sure similar novels will be on the way.
“Accept life. You can be absolved of anything you did, you can completely win back God’s love, by contributing to the future of humanity. Your happ
“Accept life. You can be absolved of anything you did, you can completely win back God’s love, by contributing to the future of humanity. Your happy sentence is only nine months.”
I agree with Tatiana and other GR reviewers. Future Home of the Living God has a fascinating premise, but it actually spends very little time exploring the devolution of humanity idea (essentially, evolution going backwards with all species becoming more primitive at an alarming rate) and instead retells The Handmaid's Tale.
It's surprising that this book has received such positive reviews from critics given that it is highly derivative. I'm already tired of these Atwood copycats - Red Clocks is another - and I'm sure this is just the beginning. It cannot be a coincidence that they are all popping up while the hype of the Hulu series is still fresh.
This book is split into three parts. Part one is an extremely slow introspective build where Cedar Hawk Songmaker finally meets her native birth mother and considers how she feels about being pregnant. The whole book is written in diary entries to "you", her unborn child. Perhaps this is characteristic of Erdrich's style in that she explores daily habits, dreams and circling thoughts with little actually happening, but I don't think it's a great choice for a book exploring a dystopian concept.
The effect of the devolution is that very few "original" babies are born - those resembling humanity as we know it. Many women experience stillbirths; many more die themselves. The new theocracy that grows out of this chaos - “The Church of the New Constitution” - starts rounding up pregnant and fertile women to seize the babies of the former, and forcibly inseminate the latter.
Most of the action takes place in part two. Too bad most of this action also took place thirty years ago in The Handmaid's Tale. It is the same story - a man, woman and their child in hiding from a theocratic government, until the woman is captured and sent off to a place where many women are kept. Women are imprisoned to be used for their fertile bodies. Even the "Mother" character who lectures the women on becoming empowered through God’s blessing of a child is reminiscent of Atwood's "Aunts".
I found too much of the book to be dull, and the most dynamic and exciting parts were those ripped straight from one of my favourite books of all time. I was also disappointed how this book wasn't really about the devolution aspect at all, but only the infertility dystopia that grew out of it. Was this a poor choice for my first Louise Erdrich book or is she simply not for me?
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