The Blind Assassin
by Margaret Atwood
Bantam Dell

Margaret Atwood, perhaps best known for her 1985 feminist classic "The Handmaid's Tale," has come out with her "latest and greatest," "The Blind Assassin." By writing books akin to feminist works of the 20th century by Dorothy Allison, Amy Tan, and Jean M. Auel, Atwood has always stayed true to a strong female voice and "The Blind Assassin" is no exception.

Set largely in the Depression era, the novel reads like a memoir focusing on the narrator's life as she recalls the circumstances of her sister Laura's death. But the plot is far from this simple. Atwood spins the web of another story within the main plot in which young lovers, meeting in dingy film noir style backstreet hotels, weave tales of science fiction for each other until World War II forever changes their lives.

The story opens unforgiveably slowly as we are introduced to the book's elderly narrator, Iris. Her deep and detailed discussions on her current life are sure to test anyone's ability to stifle a yawn, yet happily not so much of an obstacle as to keep the reader from pressing on. Even in her recount of the past, Iris herself is apologetic for the abundant and dry accounts of clothing and hairstyles. It's truly amazing that a woman in her 80s would be able to so easily recall in such detail all that she wore every moment of her childhood and young adulthood.

Women are at the heart of "Assassin" and the primary saviors plucking the reader's attention from the depths of initial boredom. Iris, Laura, and Iris' sister-in-law Winifred drive the main action in unique ways and their introduction to the reader serves as a reviving splash of cold water.

The two primary male characters, a perceived lover and a husband, serve largely to juxtapose love lost in relationships and recovered in filial ties. Despite Iris' purposefully indirect focus on issues regarding women's role in society, she creates a more resonant, lasting impression by simply telling her own life in her own words. Readers will see this in Atwood's initial stumble out of the gate as she rounds later chapters.

Iris' self-portrait is of a life swathed in a fog of money and class power created by the men in her life. Though she is clear to establish the misguided shortcomings of her own father and husband, she doesn't shy away from self-criticism and perhaps self-pity. "I had no heart anymore, it had been broken; or not broken, it simply wasn't there any more — I'm heartless, I thought. Therefore I'm homeless."

All the men in "Assassin" hide behind money: Iris' father whose suffering business pushes his daughter into a loveless marriage as a way to save her and her sister and Iris' husband who uses money as a weapon in love. Iris herself appears trapped inside her own fog of powerlessness, and yet she does have clear, though difficult, choices. Maybe she just makes the wrong ones.

The drama of Iris' past life moves the story right along, to say nothing of the curiosity the reader naturally develops concerning the side plot of the young couple. Atwood does a masterful job of engaging the reader in multiple plots encompassing several genres of historical fiction, science fiction, fictional biography and memoir. The jumps between decades unfortunately do become muddled toward the end of the novel, but as readers will have already figured out the relationship between the sub-plots, it does little to detract from the book's overall readability.

The one question that remains — and possibly the only one worth asking — is why did Laura do it? What made her act on this final decision? Was she forced by the asphyxiating grip Iris' bland and impotent life had on her? Was it to show Iris by example that accepting life beyond one's own control isn't worth living? Was it Laura's way of demonstrating her anger at Iris for not accepting control and responsibility for herself?

Read closely and perhaps you'll discover whether or not, as Laura drove deliberately off the road, the middle finger of her gloved hand was off the steering wheel and upturned in a final fuck you.

— Laura Miller (laurabethmiller@hotmail.com)