Customer Reviews

The Blind Assassin (Turtleback School & Library Binding Edition)

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If this book doesn't win the Booker Prize, then Margaret Atwood will never get to give Thomas Mallon his much-deserved comeuppance for the snide review he wrote of it for the New York Times Book Review. Because I respect Mallon and have enjoyed more than one of his books, I took this review to heart (fool that I am), wasting several weeks before discovering for myself how much fun I've been missing out on! Perhaps, however, Mallon was just playing the role of "The Blind Assassin" when he wrote it.

Because of the number of excellent plot summaries already posted here, I'll save the space and not repeat them. Atwood's female characters here are as complex and intriguing as they are in Cat's Eye. Her descriptions are so specific that every aspect of the setting comes vibrantly to life, and it is easy to imagine every detail (yes, even the much maligned simile of a loaf of bread as bland-tasting "as an angel's buttock").

The plot evolves on three distinct, but parallel, plains, giving a triple whammy to Atwood's themes, while several different time frames keep the story full of mystery and excitement. Best of all, Atwood brings all the threads of the story together for a truly thrilling, rock 'em, sock 'em grand finale. If you've been wondering why the odds are so good that Atwood will win the Booker, read the book. This will certainly NOT be a consolation prize! Mary Whipple

I admit to being an Atwoodaholic--I wrote my master's thesis on Surfacing and paid double the price to have Alias Grace shipped to me from Canada in advance of its US publication date. As such, I devoured her newest novel in two sittings, despite its 500+ page length. It has left me feeling bleak and, in the words of the book's narrator "scraped clean inside." This is a beautifully structured book, involving three (perhaps even four) narrative layers that play off of each other to build a terrifying commentary on love, passion, sisterhood (both the biological and, by extension, emotional kinds), and betrayal. The book contains the closest thing to a love story Atwood has ever written, and it's a harrowing one that will sneak up on you and devastate you in the end. With the primary action being set between WW I and WWII, the novel also offers a final comment on the twentieth century: humanity's culpability in creating, destroying, and creating again, and on the quiet moments of beauty that are possible (temporarily) among the rubble.

This is a great book, a worthy successor to the wonderful Alias Grace. Read it at your own emotional risk, but READ IT.

Not having read the other nominees, I can't compare, but the announcement that "The Blind Assassin" by Margaret Atwood has won this year's Booker Prize, I am not surprised. Atwood, having already written over a dozen novels, poetry, children's books, and some non-ficition, comes through with her latest in grand manner. A prolific writer she is indeed. That said, "The Blind Assassin" is an adventure--not to mention quite an ambitious undertaking--to read. Included in her convoluted plot line is a "novel within a novel" (see Reginald Hill's "Arms and the Women"!)--so be prepared to pay attention. Atwood's style of writing, however, is anything but convoluted; it is straight forward, but complicated, with expertly created characters.

The book is told by Iris who recounts her sister's death in Toronto in 1945, when she drives her car off a bridge. The inquest indicates that the death is accidental. Then Atwood introduces us to her "novel within a novel" entitled "The Blind Assassin." Told by a pair of anonymous lovers, the book stretches into science fiction--absorbing on its own as an intriguing story! What seems amazing about this work is the expert craftsmanship that Atwood possesses (and presemts), although, given her reputation, that is not surprising. She also captures the 1930s-40s atmosphere quite well, too! The novel is tiered, and the author explores each level, one by one, until the final pages.

With her themes of greed, love, and (inevitably) revenge, the story is right out of the Greek tragedies (well, actually, not, as "tragic" is not really exploited!). Be prepared to spend some time with this work--but it will be time well spent. What an intriguing novel! (Billyjhobbs@tyler.net)

I wish I could give this one more than five stars. The Blind Assassin is a fantastic, fabulous novel and I cannot recommend it highly enough. Margaret Atwoood has written a terrific story told in such a way that the reader will always be kept guessing as to what the true "truth" is. It is a mystery, with a death, but it is not a "mystery novel" as we come to expect. The Blind Assassin is the story of two sisters: Laura and Iris Chase. Laura died in what may or may not have been a suicidal car crash in 1945. Iris tells the story of her family and the events leading up to Laura's death, reflecting in the present on the events of the past. What is so fascinating about The Blind Assassin is that things are not always what they seem, but there are layers upon layers of story, of truth. Atwood reveals the story to us in many ways. We see newspaper accounts of what happened to the Chase family. These accounts are told with the confidence that they convey the whole, true story, but do they? Then we hear Iris' story, but something is not right with her story, something is missing. Iris admits that she has omitted crucial details and bit by bit, the reader is able to piece together what did happen. Interspersed in Iris' narrative are excerpts from Laura's posthumously publised novel, The Blind Assassin, which also give us insight into what happened. Atwood tells this story marvelously. Iris' observations about the present day are witty and sharp. Atwood kept me guessing right up until the end. The mystery of this novel makes it just that much more fun to read. The Blind Assassin is a wonderful addition to the body of work of one of the most talented living authors. I highly, highly recommend it.

Margaret Atwood continues to write stories that are...well, different, one from the other. The style in this book is so different from A Handmaid's Tale, or Alias Grace, but as usual, the writing and characters are excellent.

The story starts after World War II ends, when Laura, the narrator's younger sister, commits suicide by driving off a bridge. We are drawn into the story through a series of article clippings about the social life of the surviving sister, Iris; her pompous husband and nouveau riche sister-in-law; and the posthumous publication of Laura's science fiction novel (The Blind Assassin).

These articles are tucked between Iris' reflections on her life then and now, along with a running third party story between a woman and her lover, who tells her the original tale of The Blind Assassin.

We move back and forth in time, retracing the history of the Canadian sisters from the 1920s to 1999, in a way that makes this novel difficult to put down, a pleasure to return to. A little mystery, a little steamy romance, some socialism, and sibling rivalry combine to make this book (as with all of Atwood's books) more than just something to read. Iris, especially, is so human in her old age, her sins are easy to forgive.

The ending is a bit of a let down -- I'd figured out most of it before I was halfway through the book -- but the enjoyment of reading and being able to take all the threads and see them come to tie together was well worth the read.

A very good read for Atwood fans.

Margaret Atwood is yet another author I have mixed feelings about. While I admired The Handmaid's Tale and adored Alais Grace, Cat's Eye and The Robber Bride are two novels that I wish I had never read. I loathed them. Needless to say, I was somewhat reluctant to buy the Blind Assissin. The praise of her talents on the back of the jacket seemed a bit over indulgent, and I have always felt that, like Virgina Woolf, Atwood is all too aware of her powers and will go to great lengths to convince you that she is, in fact, a great writer. She favors unconventional structures for many of her novels (strange structures, even, that often jar the reader as jumps are made between characters and perspectives.) Don't even get me started on the frequently used (frequently mixed) metaphors which litter her pages. Such elements are once again present in The Blind Assassin; this time, however, the leap between different points of view (in this case between Iris' musings and Laura's novel) never feels gimmicky or false. In fact, The Blind Assassin moves smoothly from start to finish, and all of the stories, articles, and reflections pull you deep into the lives of the Chase sisters, and all are essential for the novel's unexpected conclusion. It is positively engrossing (I missed the finals of the US Open while reading this, grrr) and for the first time I began to realize that perhaps Atwood was right all along: she is a great writer.

One way to appraoch this extraordinary novel would be from the perspective of all that is not said. The narrator of the "Iris" sections sets herself the task to tell, thruthfully, the sad history of her family. As she progresses, however, she is forced to admit that she is leaving vital parts of the narrative out, as if they are just too painful to put into words. Even this she never fully admits to, as she repeatedly tries to relate events without becoming too involved. Yet she consistently fails in this attempt. By the end of the novel, when the "revelation" comes, most readers will have already guessed at it, but Iris herself chooses to leave out the details.

Underlying this untold story is the recurring image of a photograph cut in two. The photograph shows a man and a woman together, but where it has been cut, a disembodied hand intrudes. It is this hand, we come to realize, which is the true narrator.

Much has been said about the structural difficulties of this novel. Atwood's elliptical approach to the narrative might indeed seem to be a difficulty, but it is herein that the true greatness of the novel lies: the "novel within the novel", i.e. Laura Chase's "The Blind Assassin" harbours within it another novel, namely the science fiction story of the planet Zycron. Here mystical forces and wondrous beings engage in their struggles. These three narratives are interspersed by newspaper articles. All in all it is a tangled web. Through this tangled web, however, the reader is able to piece together the story Iris is not willing to tell. Without the complicated structure most of the meaning of the novel would have been lost.

It is, above everything else, one of the most complete and compelling accounts of the complicated business we call "life" I have ever read. As such, a mere retelling of the story would be futile. Using all her powers as both novelist and poet, Atwood has given us an insight into the essence of living against all odds. The imagery is often startlingly evocative, as the wry observations of the ageing Iris is juxtaposed with the raw sexaulity of the anoymous lovers from Laura's novel, which is again juxtaposed with the alternatively magical, cruel, beautiful and sad imagery of the science fiction story.

The novel leaves one emotionally drained. Often provoking out-loud laughter and often eliciting wry smiles, it remains a desperately sad work about loss and unfulfilled promise. It is a giant of a book and without any doubt one of the greatest novels I have ever read.

"The Blind Assassin" could well be the premier example of how good metafiction is when it works--metafiction being a novel about fiction or, more typically, a novel within a novel. Yet Atwood isn't content with mere metafiction: instead she takes the concept and cubes it. Here we have a sci-fi parable within a steamy novella within a confessional journal within a novel, all interspersed by newspaper clippings, and the remarkable thing is how everything interweaves so effortlessly and believably.

Iris Chase is writing the journal that frames Atwood's novel. She relates the daily, humiliating burdens of old age and reflects on the familial and societal circumstances that led her sister Laura to an apparent suicide half a century earlier. Alongside this journal we read Laura Chase's posthumously published noir-style novella called "The Blind Assassin," concerning a well-to-do woman (someone a lot like Laura or Iris) and her torrid, secretive affair with a "Red" (as in proletarian) rabble-rouser. The book's publication made Laura famous in death, both because of the explicitness for its time and, in later years, because of its subtle feminist message, which made her grave a shrine of sorts. And, finally, within that novella is a pulp fiction science fiction story about the Planet Zycron and its bizarre inhabitants, a morality tale related by the boyfriend to his lover during their trysts.

On some level, Atwood's book is a mystery novel--there are several revelations along the way--but (smartly) she doesn't make too much of these secrets. As Iris says when she uncovers the final skeleton (and I won't spoil it here): "But you must have known that for some time." And, it's true, most readers will figure out the book's secrets many pages or even chapters before their unveiling. But deciphering the secrets is not even half the fun of this novel. Instead the marvel is watching Atwood fit all the pieces together, create characters that are both fascinating and realistic, and narrate four different (if interconnected) stories in authentically unique styles.

The narrative collision in Margaret Atwood's 2000 novel is between the biographical recollections of Iris Chase Griffen and the novel "The Blind Assassin" written by her sister Laura Chase, who committed suicide in 1945. Thrown in for good measure at strategic intervals are newspaper articles covering the deaths and other choice moments in the lives of the characters, most of whom move in the upper echelon of Canadian society. We know that at some point the importance of the novel-within-a-novel (in which a man tells science-fiction stories to the woman with whom he is having an affair in backstreet rooms) for the real life story (the girl's father owns a button factory who marries off Iris to stave off financial ruin) will become painfully clear. "The Blind Assassin" is not allegorical, mainly because it is to personal a tale to have that broad a meaning for its readers. As Iris approaches death at the turn of the century, she looks back on her life in the 1930's and 40's, explaining it so that we understand the true import of her sister's novel.

I usually devour novels at a frantic pace but that proved impossible with "The Blind Assassin." This was one of those novels where you would finish a part, which alternate between the narrative and the novel, and mull over what had just happened and how the pieces were coming together. But even getting through individual chapters took time, because there were so many wonderfully written lines, so many finely crafted paragraphs, that you just had to sit back and enjoy them (or run around sharing them with people who were unfortunate enough not to have read this book yet). Young Laura Chase tends to take things literally, and this old literary chestnut blooms anew in Atwood's novel; pithy sayings and wise old adages are routinely scrutinized for fallacious qualities throughout. The result of this infatuation with Atwood's exquisite use of language is that I did not see the forest for the trees and was therefore completely stunned by the way things came together at the end. But that is just fine, because it has been such a long time since I have read a book this well written. I do not think it is destined to be a classic per se, because ultimately its greatness rests on style more than substance, but in terms of contemporary fiction this would have to rank on the next rung down the ladder. I have several friends who are now eager to read this book, so after you are done with "The Blind Assassin" you should also pass the word along to those who crave literate literature.

And for a while, I really did. What an unusual, totally original idea for a story: a woman tells her long, twisted family history, which is interspersed with excerpts from her dead sister's novel about two lovers meeting in hotel rooms to tell a science fiction story. What an amazing concept.

Unfortunately, it falls flat, for several reasons: the narrator is unengaging and tedious. The secondary characters are cardboard cutouts from a gothic novel. The resolution to the science fiction story is phenomenally unsatisfying. And there are several passages that, while beautifully written, bog the story down and have no thrust.

This isn't to say that I didn't enjoy the book. There were many portions that I certainly did enjoy. That I finished this in three days should indicate that, if nothing else, Atwood knows how to keep a reader engaged. And there are moments of such startling originality that I had to lean back, put the book down and say out loud, 'my God, that's good writing.' Atwood, it must be said, has a remarkable talent.

She's got, however, a few serious flaws as well. First of all, the narrator, Iris Chase Griffen. I know she's had a hard, hard life. I can't imagine going through half of the disastrous events she recounts: mother's death, father's death, a loveless marriage, supervising a loopy sister in a decaying mansion straight out of Jane Eyre. It's all quite tragic. She also makes it quite interminable. If we're going to be with this woman for the better part of 500 pages, we want to like her. But I don't think I've ever come across a more bitter, listless narrator. Everywhere, everywhere there's thunder and gloom and endless references to raped women and raw sewage. Reading Iris's words is akin to sitting with a morbid dinner guest with a tragic history. You're truly sorry to hear the horrible events. You genuinely sympathize. And there's a part of you that just wants to get the hell out. A narrator need not be perky. She need not be funny, even. But she's got to have life. Look at Holden, from 'Catcher in the Rye.' He should be a sobbing rich brat, and he is, but you want to hear more. He's got charisma, and you need that on some level, no matter who you are. If we're going to hear Iris's sob story, we need to be engaged with her. Atwood is far too interested in creating a mood and not interested enough in creating a character. Iris is so stuck in the mud, so alarmingly passive until the very end, that you can't help skipping ahead to see when someone else is going to take the story's focus.

If Atwood paints Iris with a very gloomy brush, she barely touches the other characters. Even Iris has to admit, towards the end, that she's described her husband as a total cardboard cutout. She's being far too modest. Her husband Richard and his sister Winnifred are painted as evil, child molesting, power obsessed maniacs. There is no other dimension given them. Reenie, Iris's childhood nurse, might as well join a repertory company and play their stock Irish housekeeper until she drops dead. Father dearest is locked away in his turret drinking and raving, and should've headed to Bronte country long ago. Laura is the only character who emerges with a hint of coloring, and Atwood keeps her shrouded in mystery, unfairly refusing to allow Laura her moment of self-actualization and explanation. The true crime is Alex Thomas, the mysterious orphan. He is the most fascinating character, and is given almost nothing. True, once the book is completed it's quite obvious why he can't be a bigger part of Iris's story. Still, you feel that Atwood's cheated you out of something special, something different and exciting. You feel truly shackled to Iris as the story progresses. This is a problem that I noticed in 'The Handmaid's Tale'; apart from the narrator, no character is given true dimension and depth. This is a frequent Atwood problem.

As for the novel-within-a-novel, it's the whole point of reading this book. To watch unnamed lovers squabble and love in dirty hotel rooms while composing a bizarre science fiction universe is fascinating. If she'd wanted to, Atwood probably could have done away with the entire Iris story and worked more on this. The Iris tale, interesting as it may be, has been done before. Nothing really surprises us. Whereas this tale is fresh and interesting. However, that being said, the end of the 'blind assassin', the science fiction tale that the lovers tell, is weak. Unbelievably weak. As in 'wrapped up in one sentence halfway through the book' weak. You really can't believe it. There's more science fiction mumbo jumbo ahead, but nothing about this character. Since he lends his name to the title of the book, you think he'd get better treatment. That's the problem with the science fiction aspect of the novel: it's used as an unusual method to parallel the other two stories. Atwood doesn't explore these characters in their own right, and when it's about a mute sacrificial virgin and a blind assassin falling in love the night before a city's destruction, you'd think she'd pay them more mind. Repressed socialites we've seen. Fugitives telling tales about the fantastical in motel rooms, not so much.

Lastly, the book doesn't need to be this long. There are several chapters that simply don't need to be there. The octagenarian Iris telling about her routine trips to the donut shop is not a riveting read. And Ms. Atwood, I understand that death is knocking at this woman's door, and that women are abused and squashed and raped in fifteen different ways, physically and spiritually, in this world. Please stop beating me over the head with it. Telling me once is good. Telling me twenty eight times is pushing it. Atwood is an accomplished poet, and it shows. The passages are gorgeously written. But they get in the way of the story. Atwood needs to figure out how to get her lovely prose to push the narrative ahead. She's not always so good with that.

It's not that this is a terrible book. Not in the least. But it could have been so much better. Ms. Atwood got lost in her wonderful idea, and forgot to make her world accessible. She also forgot to bring a little more humanity into the proceedings. And lastly, and most importantly, she didn't give her blind assassin the treatment he deserved. A title character has the right to something better.