Review, Jul-Sep '26

WIP

Books
Poems and Short Stories
1. Dishsoap Quarterly

Books

Cat’s Eye, by Margaret Atwood

Knowing too much about other people puts you in their power, they have a claim on you, you are forced to understand their reasons for doing things and then you are weakened.
— Cat’s Eye, pp. 240

Atwood’s opus. The most impactful book I have ever read.

“What’s in your pocket?” says Cordelia.
“Nothing,” I say. “It’s only a marble.”
It’s marble season; everyone has marbles in their pockets. Cordelia lets it pass. She doesn’t know what power this cat’s eye has to protect me. Sometimes when I have it with me I can see the way it sees. I can see people moving like bright animated dolls, their mouths opening and closing but no real words coming out. I can look at their shapes and sizes, their colors, without feeling anything else about them. I am alive in my eyes only.
— Cat’s Eye, pp. 157

Also, a tricky read: it was tough to make out the print while crying.

For a moment she says nothing. Then she says, not harshly, “Why is your picture so dark, my dear?”
“Because it’s night,” I say. This is an idiotic answer, I know that as soon as it’s out of my mouth. My voice is almost inaudible, even to me.
“I see,” she says. She doesn’t say I’ve drawn the wrong thing, or that surely there’s something else I do after school besides going to bed. She touches me on the shoulder, briefly, before continuing down the aisle. Her touch glows briefly, like a blown-out match.
— Cat’s Eye, pp. 181

Cat’s Eye is—among many other things—a devastating exploration of the work required to extend empathy to those who have hurt you, and how natural it is to pass on the cruetly you have recieved.

Cordelia did the same thing, at the same age. The same folded arms, the same immobile face, the blank-eyed stare. Cordelia! Put on your gloves, it’s cold out. So? I can’t come over, I have to finish my homework. So?
Cordelia, I think. You made me believe I was nothing.
So?
To which there is no answer.
— Cat’s Eye, pp. 219

It’s a treatise against eye-for-an-eye thinking. If everyone read this book, the world would be an immeasurably better place.

Cordeila is afraid of me, in this picture.
I am afraid of Cordelia.
I’m not afraid of seeing Cordelia. I’m afraid of being Cordelia. Because in some way we changed places, and I’ve forgotten when.
— Cat’s Eye, pp. 249

The novel has three distinct sections in my eyes; each is brilliant, and each has a tear-jerker ending more brutal than the last.

“A marble!” says my mother, with a child’s delight. “Remember all those marbles Stephen used to collect?”
“Yes,” I say. But this one was mine.
I look into it, and see my life entire.
— Cat’s Eye, pp. 434

Until the final section, I had no idea where the story was ultimately headed. Then I figured it out.

She will have her own version. I am not the center of her story, because she herself is that. But I could give her something you can never have, except from another person: what you look like from outside. A reflection. This is the part of hersef I could give back to her.
We are like the twins in old fables, each of whom has been given half a key.
— Cat’s Eye, pp. 450

I began to dread what was to come, for it was sure to destroy me.

I know she’s looking at me, the lopsided mouth smiling a little, the face closed and defiant. There is the same shame, the sick feeling in my body, the same knowledge of my own wrongness, awkwardness, weakness; the same wish to be loved; the same loneliness; the same fear. But these are not my own emotions any more. They are Cordelia’s; as they always were.
— Cat’s Eye, pp. 459

I was not disappointed.

This is what I miss, Cordelia: not something that’s gone, but something that will never happen.
— Cat’s Eye, pp. 462

— 5/5 —

A Pale View of Hills, by Kazuo Ishiguro

From where I sit, Kazuo Ishiguro is the most famous living literary novelist. Ever since he won the Nobel prize in 2017, I’ve had the intention of reading his work. Yesterday I went to the library to pick up my DVD hold for Danny Boyle’s Trainspotting (I had to request an inter-library loan), and on a whim decided to look through what Ishiguro novels were available; I knew his books were short, and wanted something different before diving into another massive Atwood tome (The Robber Bride).

“You see,” I said, “the little girl isn’t on a swing at all. It seemed like that at first. But it’s not a swing she’s on.”
— A Pale View of Hills, pp. 96

A Pale View of Hills lived up to expectations. The dialogue was stilted and awkward, but in a very purposeful way; it’s possibly only a slight exageration of Japanese dialogue of the time period. In a way it’s very similar to a Margaret Atwood book—a very flawed elderly protagonist remembering her life, a central mystery, and a subtle reveal that recontextualizes the story—but it’s written in an entirely different style. There was a level of distance between us and the character that left a lot for the reader to interpret.

— 4/5 —

An Artist of the Floating World, by Kazuo Ishiguro

I returned her smile, but did not say anything. Of course, the old district had been fine. We had all enjoyed ourselves and the spirit that had pervaded the bantering and those arguments had never been less than sincere. But then perhaps that same spirit had not always been for the best. Like many things now, it is perhaps as well that little world has passed away and will not be returning. I was tempted to say as much to Mrs Kawakami that evening, but decided it would be tactless to do so.
— An Artist of the Floating World, pp. 126-127

I think Ishiguro may be a little too meticulous and literary for my taste, and a little light on personality and emotion. In this second novel I was already used to his themes and devices, particularly the focus on the memory of an unreliable narrator, and I was much less impressed with what ultimately developed. There’s still great stuff, but I found it quite repetitive and predictable. I know much of the repetition was by design, but, again, it was not to my liking.

— 3/5 —

The Remains of the Day, by Kazuo Ishiguro

I suffered all the more because I believed I was alone.
— The Remains of the Day, pp. 154

The Remains of the Day is a near perfect novel. Its structure does not feel as contrived as Ishiguro’s first two books, nor is the unreliable narrator hammer used to such a frustrating extent. It is also surprisingly readable and funny for being such a famous piece of literary fiction.

— 5/5 —

The Penelopiad, by Margaret Atwood

Proof that The Odyssey story can be told in such a way that I connect with its characters; I dislike Nolan’s film more and more with every passing day. But while The Penelopiad is a good book, I found it a bit short and sligtht compared with the rest of her bibliography. I enjoyed the begininning of the story the most, as well as the more experimental chapters like the jury trial.

— 3/5 —

The Robber Bride, by Margaret Atwood

But she was disguised as herself, one of the most successful disguises.
— The Robber Bride, pp. 135

The Robber Bride is far more opaque and mysterious than most of Atwood’s works: it never explains itself, not in so many words. Is it a comedy?

The twins are in the family room, watching a rerun of Star Trek.
“Greetings, Earthmom,” says Paula.
“Maybe she isn’t Mom,” says Erin. “Maybe she’s a Replicant.”
“Hi, kids,” says Roz. “It’s way past your bedtime! Where’s Larry?”
“Erla’s done our homework,” says Erin. “This is our reward.”
“Mom, what’s wrong?” says Paula. “You look like shit.”
“It’s old age,” says Roz.
— The Robber Bride, pp. 499

I laughed out loud many times, yet it contains perhaps the most disturbing chapters Atwood has ever written. Is it a thriller? A noir? A mystery? No, it isn’t any of those either. It’s often obtuse, along the lines of Surfacing, but with themes and a plot structure somewhere in the vicinity of Life Before Man and Cat’s Eye: we only think of the world from our point of view; empathy is work, it’s unnatural.

Before she goes to bed, Charis does a meditation on Zenia. She needs to do this, because although she has often thought about Zenia in relation to herself, or to Billy, or even to Tony and Roz, she has never truly considered what Zenia was in and by herself: the Zenia-ness of Zenia. She has no object, nothing belonging to Zenia, to focus on, so instead she turns off the lights in the living room and stares out the window, into the darkness, towards the lake. Zenia was sent into her life—was chosen by her—to teach her something. Charis doesn’t know what it was yet, but in time she will uncover it.
— The Robber Bride, pp. 498

Was Zenia a villain? I don’t think so. She was a survivor. Was Zenia real? Surely she existed in some respect, but it seems impossible that all aspersions cast by our three protagonists were true, or could be true of any one person. Most accounts of her villainy came from heresay and supposition, or from the mouth of back-from-the-dead Zenia, whose bizarre nature I haven’t quite puzzled out.

The mere absence of a body would not stop Zenia; she would just take somebody else’s. The dead return in other forms, she thinks, because we will them to.
— The Robber Bride, pp. 517

The final two chapters give a lot of support to pro-Zenia theories, e.g. Charis’ realization about Billy. Maybe Zenia, in fact, rescued these women from horrible relationships! She’s a hero then, a vigilante? Was the story all about internalized misogyny, women blaming women in lieu of the true male culprits? But I don’t believe it’s that clear cut either.

Update: Zenia defenders rejoice! In Stone Mattress there is a sequel story set twenty years later: I Dream of Zenia with the Bright Red Teeth. Apart from being a lovely epilogue to the novel—Atwood seems to have developed a taste for happy endings in her later years—it heavily supports my reading of things:

In fact, says Charis, maybe Zenia’s intentions were benevolent all along. Maybe she stole Billy to protect Charis from such a bad apple as him. Maybe she stole West to teach Tony a life lesson about, well music appreciation or something, and maybe she stole Mitch to clear the way for Roz’s much better husband, Sam. Maybe Zenia was, like, the secret alter ego for each of them, acting out stuff for them they didn’t have the strength to act out by themselves. When you looked at it that way…
— Stone Mattress, pp. 156

Now this is Charis talking, of course, so it is a more optimistic view than the one I’d put forward—and likely more optimistic than the vision Atwood had in mind—but it nevertheless posits Zenia as a complex character, not merely a manipulative villain.

— 5/5 —

The Water Cure, by Sophie Mackintosh

I’m not sure what to take away from the plot of The Water Cure, but it was brilliantly written. A rare novel carried mostly by its prose.

For a second, I hate her. I want to lock my fingers around her throat. Then I remember as I always do that I am supposed to love her, so I look back into her eyes and think of an orb of pink light, my obedient heart.
— The Water Cure, pp. 77

I’ve seen some crtics state that the book takes a misandrist or “toxic feminist” point of view, but it did not come off that way to me. We are reading from the perspective of two abused, unstable women, I don’t think the text or the author condone everything about how Grace and Lia see the world. The ending felt similar to the conclusion of Carrie (1976): equal parts cathartic and tragic. I thought James was presented as a very sympathetic character.

It fits perfectly inside my palm and I slip it into my pocket, because even the unlovable deserve something, because I take my gifts where I can find them.
— The Water Cure, pp. 80

I also have to say that I found the book strangely erotic, even though the “romance” was quite repulsive: I have no desire to live out a Llew fantasy with a woman who has been isolated, and physically and mentally tortured for her entire life. No, what I mean is that Lia’s all-consuming sexual and emotional desires were written in such a vivid way.

“I just thought I’d come and find you,” I say, self-concious. “To see if you wanted to do something.” I do not say anything we can do anything you want, not in front of the child, though if he was not there I might fall to my knees on the ground and beg.
“I’m busy,” he says. “Sorry.” He turns to Gwil. “Another game?” The child nods. As they walk back on the court, I run behind them. When I grab hold of Llew’s arm, he stops.
“Please,” I say, my mouth dry. “Please.” I can feel love slipping past me like a fast breeze. Like draining water. I am ready to humiliate myself, if that is what it takes. He pushes me a third time and I fall back, stagger hard to the ground. I am on my knees after all. Gwil looks at me in alarm.
— The Water Cure, pp. 196

Sophie Mackintosh is an interesting writer, and from interviews she seems lovely and humble; I’ll definitely read her later stuff. Plus she was the only participant in the 100 writers surveyed for The Guardion’s 100 best novels article to put forward Morvern Callar.

— 3/5 —