This is the first book I have dog-eared since I was a child. I generally find such behavior to be shameful in a major way, as I a) cherish the hard text of a book, and see the decline of its role as a sacred object, the slipping away of its tactile comforts of touch, of smell, of PRESENCE, and our new-found, technologically-driven disregard of its certainty and necessity in the face of the newest electronic thingamajigs and whatchamahoos as a shame and b) am cheap, and constantly rotate my books out to where (with a few exceptions for favorites) I never own a collection of books that I have actually read. I almost immediately trade them for new ones, you see. We have our little dance, and I am gentle and kind as I am able, being certain that I have left as few dings in it as possible so that it may be salvageable for the next reader. I keep nothing but the fondest, sweetest memories of the books that I let go of. Of course, there is an element of loss involved, a sense of regret as I hand it over to whatever book re-salesman will have it. Setting something free from your clutches is never easy for thinking, feeling creatures, no matter the size of the thing, and regardless of its importance to you and your sense of being. This rant has reminded me of one of my favorite lines from the Woody Allen film Sweet and Lowdown, where one of the characters is describing her thoughts on the leads love of the locomotive: its power, its virility, its certaintyhe responds most simply with "You sound like you want to go to bed with the train." Maybe I am personifying this book, but it did take on a very real presence as I read it, and for the first time in many years, I beat the thing to shit. I cried on it, I threw it around, I spilled coffee and wine and beer all over it, I accidentally tore a section of the dustjacket and used it as a bookmark in the midst of immense frustration, I reread passages while resisting the urge to spit on them; it was hard. In fact, it has been some time since a book that I started in one stage of life so effectively coincided with the tides of mine, until finally merging with me at the finish line. I thank it. I hate it. It made me feel sane and insane.I stood outside my house, my former house, waiting to have an emotion of any kind at all. None came. Having experienced both, I am not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it.This tale is one of hushed voices, of regret, of horrible timing for the meeting of otherwise serendipitous souls, and of false-starts and poorly situated culminations which swell up into a frenzy of pain. Pain, right? Well, pain is not without its lessons, and is not necessarily restricted to the bounds of being painful alone. It is never without a shimmering truth which can mean more than love or loss, than pride and readjusting. From this book, I came to a solemn yet serene conclusion: the pain I have dealt with in life, the misguided steps, the selfishness and selflessness combined, are not symbolic of a pattern. They are, rather, the infinite self (you, everyone you have met, everyone who has mattered a lot or very little to you, and you to them) breathing in and out, in and out, at various speeds, in varying depths, and when those depths are actually deep, you should look back and breathe a contented sigh. These are your experiences, and live though you may within the realm of what-ifs, there are still glorious fits of sincere awakening to be gleaned from these moments. The important thing is to hold on to them. To keep them in your heart (your brain, of course), and never cast them off as fickle. Love is a vortex, or so says this book in its sideways, coiling fashion. Circumstance is the same. Take what you can from it, and let it be useful and important to you as a human. True connection is rare, and convenient circumstances for such are even rarer. All you can pull away is warm, gratifying associations of memory, of sensation. In this novel, they took on the form of a sci-fi novel within a novel within a novel within a novela deceit within a deceit within a deceita culmination of enunciated dreams bursting like the bubbles in a pot of boiling water, searing everything around that dares to reach out. Fantasies met with the cruelties of reality, with friends, family, money, station, sense, and notable nonsense. All the same, they are still there, embedded in your skull to be elevated or demonized at will. I choose to stash mine away and honor them, much like the photograph of the lost love which is held to the chest of the narrator of this sorry, hopeful story. I choose to keep them dear to me, to keep them close. All of them. Complexity in the face of true communion with another human is a lot of what this book is about. Atwood spells it out well, acrid though it may be. In a way, she tells you to keep trying, to cradle the good parts even if they are intangible and unspoken. And shes right. Follow your heart, dork, even if it tells you to be really, really stupid sometimes. Life is short and love is a bitch, but isnt it all pretty fascinating? Arent you thankful? I am. I welcome pain and see it as potential awakening. As your folks or grandfolks may have said: "I walked fifty miles barefoot in the snow uphill both ways and blah blah blah"yeah, it's a pretty decent analogy. Heres a beautiful quote, as this review is too long, and I want you to have at least some feel of the novel from it:"Was this a betrayal, or was it an act of courage? Perhaps both. Neither one involves forethought: such things take place in an instant, in an eyeblink. This can only be because they have been rehearsed by us already, over and over, in silence and darkness; in such silence, such darkness, that we are ignorant of them ourselves. Blind but sure-footed, we step forward as if into a remembered dance."

4 1/2 starsI cant give the book 5 stars, because I know I will never read it again. The story is its own spoiler. But until its done, its a dark, almost gothic page turner.I usually start my reviews with something about the author, but unusually for me Ive already read three books by this author (the dystopian Maddaddam Trilogy). Can you blame me for thinking that everyone must know this author, if Ive read four novels by her? Of course you cant.First off, this novel is in no way a science fiction novel, even though that phrase is seen now and then in reviews. A novel that has science fiction elements is involved, but its not the novel you hold in your hand when you read The Blind Assassin (BA). Its inside that novel youre holding. And darned if it doesnt have the same name as the book in your hand.So you wont believe how dense I am. I never really made the connection between the sort-of SF novel written by one of the books characters (called BA), and some of the chapters in the book in my hands that were actually titled The Blind Assassin: . I simply noticed that these chapters were written by a normal narrator, whereas the other chapters (if they werent brief newspaper notices) were written by a character in the first person. Well, are you confused yet?The novel is actually an evocative historical novel, about a family in Canada, starting in the nineteenth century, building a modest empire of button factories, whose granddaughters are Iris and Laura, growing up in the early years of the twentieth century. The story and its characters (the ones that survive) move through the first World War, the maiden voyage of the Queen Mary, the Depression, the Spanish Civil War, the second World War, and several decades further for the luckiest(?).We gradually learn more about these two girls, their parents, and the men they become involved with. But much of the information is ambiguous, equivocal, obscure we get clues about something, think ah yes, so thats whats going on, then later well maybe I was wrong, then later yet no, I was right the first time. And new obscurities pop up, casting a veil over things that seemed clear earlier on.Its a dark novel. Most of the characters are a little bit off, not really dangerous, but finely drawn to make this reader feel unsure whether he would want to know such people. The women are either mistreated quite severely, or mistreat others in that way (particularly other women).As the story progresses, both it and the narrators turn more and more inward, things becoming ever more surreal, little left of their lives but memories, anticipations, wishes, fears, pain. Much of the narrative actually occurs within dreams.Atwoods writing is mesmerizing, and draws the reader relentlessly on as the stakes get higher. Heres one of her sequences, from a BA chapter:Now she imagines him dreaming. She imagines him dreaming of her, as she is dreaming of him. Through a sky the color of wet slate they fly towards each other on dark invisible wings, searching, searching, doubling back, drawn by hope and longing, baffled by fear. In their dreams they touch, they intertwine, its more like a collision, and that is the end of the flying. They fall to earth, fouled parachutists, botched and cindery angels, love streaming out behind them like torn silk. Enemy groundfire comes up to meet them.Though I had a pretty good idea of what the Truth of Atwoods ambiguities would be, I was completely in the dark of how Atwood the writer would bring this story to a close narrative-wise. How would she wrap this tale up? Splendidly! Not a happy ending really, but weepy fellow that I am, she never wrote anything that made me tear up until a single sentence on the final page. Then I was overcome.A great, great story.

Writing a novel like The Blind Assassin is so challenging that only a monumentally gifted writer like Margaret Atwood can pull it off. Structuring it like those nested Russian dolls, she tucks a science fiction/fantasy tale within a sad, mysterious love story. Both are then enveloped by a grand narrative of the lives of two sisters from a wealthy Ontario family. The Blind Assassin succeeds on all these levels: historical fiction, mystery, love story, and fantasy. The main story is told in the first person, in the voice of elder sister Iris Chase Griffen, whose memoir spans the 20th century. Iris and younger sister Laura are the daughters of a wealthy manufacturer in the small (fictional) city of Port Ticonderoga, Ontario. Its difficult to view Iris and Laura with anything other than pity. Their fathers wealth and social standing never compensate for the repression, emotional starvation, and isolation that characterized their upbringing. Iriss feelings toward Laura are, well, complicated. Laura is sensitive and painfully literal. Iris is irked by her offbeat spirituality and, as the reader learns on the first page, even her death provokes as much anger as grief. Iriss recounting of the Chase family saga is periodically interrupted by the novel-within-a-novel: namely, The Blind Assassin. This is a story of an illicit romance conducted by two nameless lovers during the lean, desperate years of the Great Depression. To some 21st century sensibilities, illicit may seem like an outdated, judgmental word to describe an extramarital affair. But this affair was farther outside this societys boundaries than most. It was a relationship that posed clear risks for both the man and the woman, whose identities are only gradually revealed to the reader. The Blind Assassin is imbued with even more sadness than is to be expected from a story that is told by an aged woman reminiscing about long-ago events. Even though one can understand Iriss peculiar mix of power and powerlessness, I found it difficult to empathize with her, or to like her very much. My feelings about the two sisters changed only a little even after I learned the truth about their lives. They seemed too passive and too detached from their fates. Even Lauras odd, obtuse rebelliousness was unsatisfying. I know that my attitude is unfair because the time and place of this novel is so far removed from the world in which I live. In the end, I was able to muster some empathy for Iris, but I couldnt stop being irritated with Laura. And this novels sole hero was, in my eyes at least, so strangely faceless and soulless as to be almost a cipher.So why did I award four stars to The Blind Assassin? I cannot say that I really liked it but it is true that I really admired it. It is beautifully written, powerful, hauntingand unforgettable.

The readers from Sakiel-Norn, due to their long and drawn-out labor, have been known to fall asleep during their readings. Though it is not typical of the readers, even their most prolific colleagues would admit to having stolen a few quiet moments of rest in between pages. The Blind Assassin, was an exception for one of the readers. He dropped the 600-page tomb again and again on his unsuspecting face, rousing himself from a newly established slumber. If you havent gathered, I found this one pretty slow.After Oryx & Crake became one of my all-time favorite sci-fi novels early in my university days, I was disappointed by both follow-up instalments in the Maddadam trilogy. So I took a break from Atwood, but fully intended to return to her prolific back catalogue. The Blind Assassin seemed like the ideal next step: sci-fi, mysterious family dealings, AND a Booker Prize Winner? It had all the makings of a novel Id enjoy.ButWell, it isnt bad, thats for sure. Ill spare you a synopsis that you can find it easily in any of the other reviews, and instead tell you that the books structure ticks along like fine clockwork. Iris present day recounting is contrasted with the installments in the book-within-the-book, the eponymous The Blind Assassin, and newspaper clippings. It all does come together neatly (but messily for the characters). Both the story in the present and that in the past compliment one another, and influenced my interpretation of one another. ButMan, is it ever slow. Ill admit to having read a lot of shorter novels lately, and I first wracked up The Blind Assassins slow opening to my relative naiveté with larger undertakings. Yet, by the time I was 200-pages deep, it was obvious that the speed Atwood set was what could be expected for the duration of the journey. There are passages here that are extremely strong. Some resonated with me deeply, or provided a profound point that stuck with me after I put the book back down. But theres so much more writing that seemed superfluous and some sentences seem designed by thesauruses they are so stiffly constructed. Atwoods writing is generally strong throughout, but she indulges in some stuffy writing that absolutely detracted from my reading experience. Of course, whats the good in the writing if the story isnt any good? After having completed the novel, the story is definitely a good one. The concept is solid, the characters have strong motivations, and though I saw a lot of the ending twist coming, Atwood pulls it off in the final 100-pages with such style that I didnt mind that Id already figured it out. ButThe novel is overblown, and could have accomplished all it did a good 100- to 150-pages lighter. There are so many passages that seem like they could have been snipped away by a keen-eyed editor and I would have been none the wiser. The girls childhood story goes on a bit too long, and the story doesnt really start to become engaging until Iris is married off (into a nest of vipers that comprise two particularly heinous villains). The last 100 pages move quickly and are easily the most gripping in the novel. The story reaches a tragic climax that pulls on what has come before, but also exposes what was not essential to the story. My reading experience of Margaret Atwoods The Blind Assassin is well summed up by the following quote from the novel.But in life, a tragedy is not one long scream. It includes everything that up to it. Hour after trivial hour, day after day, year after year, and then the sudden moment. -Margaret Atwood, The Blind AssassinIts sort of a shame to admit, but in reading The Blind Assassin I felt that I got all of the monotonous lead up, that took a bit of the impact out of the novels sudden moment. This is a slow and ponderous read, though I cant say I regret reading it. The ending is quite good, and I really did enjoy Atwoods meticulously designed story structure. For all of you who have enjoyed the book, I can totally see where youre coming from. Unfortunately, The Blind Assassin just never clicked with me in the way I expected. So, all-in-all, a book that I thought was good, but also one that I felt moved too slowly for its own good.

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. Otherwise, you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it. As Promised A full review Exhilarating poignant read, Atwood showcases exuberance and confidence throughout 600 pages and my jaw was always left ajar. The rich texture of the plot & writing paired well with the complexities of the characters and it is no surprise that she snubbed the 2000 Man Booker with grace. I am afraid that this will be another gushing review and I can't wait to dive in and pour out my love for this book.Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence. Time and distance blur the edges; then suddenly the beloved has arrived, and it's noon with its merciless light, and every spot and pore and wrinkle and bristle stands clear. It is one thick plot that spans over generation told from 3 perspectives and I ate it all up. Having read Atwood's The Handmaids Tale (Review Here) Last year I was blown away by her commanding writing, her confidence and feminist undertone even though I didn't connect with the book, it still haunts me... So picking up this one I was 100% sure I would adore the writing and boy was I right. This was beautiful, striking, epic that I can't fathom my love for it. Books like these are the reasons I dare not to tackle writing because she freaking owns it. The themes were ever so present and relevant plus the 50year old POV narrator was so strong that I can still hear her voice weeks after finishing the book.When you're young, you think everything you do is disposable. You move from now to now, crumpling time up in your hands, tossing it away. You're your own speeding car. You think you can get rid of things, and people tooleave them behind. You don't yet know about the habit they have, of coming back.Time in dreams is frozen. You can never get away from where you've been. The generational saga was scrutinized to such details that the reader feels like they have been traveling throughout history, the way the story is structured gives such a fresh perspective on the genre and the relationships between the characters was odd in a good way, it felt very authentic as they come to terms with war, death, the great depression and so much. This will definitely be those books that I will always go back to, Atwood's writing will forever haunt me and I am definitely planning to tackle some if not all of her books. I highly recommend you pick up one of her books she is quickly becoming a favorite :)What do other Atwood books you recommend?