Tag: imoreads blog

Categories
American Literature

ImoReads… ‘The Testaments’ (2019) by Margaret Atwood

Blog Nº 12

“As they say, history does not repeat itself, but it rhymes”

Like many female readers, I was profoundly affected by Margaret Atwood’s seminal work The Handmaid’s Tale (1985). A dystopian novel set in a near-future New England, an uprising sees the imposition of a totalitarian and theocratic state called Gilead, in which any and all women endure some form of extreme subjugation. Anyone who has read The Handmaid’s Tale will know that the protagonist Offred’s fate at the end of the book is ambiguous. Therefore, when I heard that Atwood was writing the next chapter, I was very excited to find out what became of both her and Gilead itself.

However, when I came to read The Testaments, I quickly realised that a straightforward sequel it was not. I admit I was disappointed at first, but after the first chapter I was completely hooked. In fact, Atwood has undoubtedly crafted the most fitting, satisfying and simply sublime second instalment of the saga of Gilead, set 15 years after The Handmaid’s Tale.

The novel sees us alternate between three ‘witness testimonies’ who narrate the novel. We have the infamous Aunt Lydia from the first novel, Agnes, a young woman growing up in a privileged Gilead family, and Daisy, a young woman on the outside looking in from Canada. This certainly provides a range of perspectives, particularly when comparing the two young women with the old and ever-cunning Aunt Lydia. Each is told retrospectively, but as the novel goes on the reader begins to see them intertwining in unexpected and clever ways, for an ending that is as gloriously satisfying as it is compelling.

Although completely different in their outlook, Daisy and Agnes are both recognisable and comparable throughout the novel as idealistic teenage girls who unlike Lydia, do not live for the game of plotting, betrayal and power. From Atwood’s previous novel, we are naturally predisposed to dislike Lydia, so it is certainly interesting, albeit chilling, to learn about her experience of Gilead’s foundation; she tells of her role in creating and leading the order of Aunts with a disturbing vigour.

As with the first novel, the hypocrisy and dog-eat-dog attitude of this supposedly God-fearing state is undeniable. The author uses the character of Agnes extremely effectively to demonstrate this. Agnes, like all the young girls in Gilead, feels real terror and guilt about accidentally enticing any man to succumb to his apparent overwhelming sexual urges simply by existing in a female body. When Dr Grove assaults Agnes in his office, she doesn’t know that a woman cannot and should not be blamed for any such irrepressible urges a man may have that could lead to sexual assault and rape. This is dramatic irony, and as the reader you are shocked that Agnes feels so surely that she is in the wrong.

Indeed, Atwood felt compelled to write a second instalment of the Gilead saga as a reaction to events concerning for women in modern America, namely the misogyny of Trump and the rise of the Christian right wing. It is worrying that in the 35 years since The Handmaid’s Tale was published, any progress made across the pond has somewhat regressed.

Overall though, this novel IS about female solidarity and overcoming estrictions put upon women by the men. I won’t ruin the ending but what I will say is this – you will feel that sweet elation of revenge, karma and vengeance all at once when you come to understand the fall of Gilead. Although by no means an innocent party, only this person could be the one to bring Gilead down in a way to give you such a level of satisfaction and expose it for the sham it really is.

Happy reading,

Imo x

Categories
English literature French Literature nineteenth century

ImoReads… ‘Around the World in Eighty Days’ (1873) by Jules Verne

Blog Nº 10

“Everybody knows that England is the world of betting men, who are of a higher class than mere gamblers; to bet is in the English temperament”

Hooray, I’m back in the rollicking world of Victorian adventure thanks to Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days (1873). My parents bought me a lovely edition for Christmas and it took me all of a week to devour it and see if it was in fact possible to pull off such a feat. 

Of course, this book was originally written in French (and perhaps I should have read it comme ça) but I thought the English translation worked really well, in part because London is the home setting and the main character is an English gentleman, Phileas Fogg. 

Whose idea was it to take on this crazy trip I hear you cry, which brings me to the premise of the story. Our protagonist Mr Fogg has just taken on a new servant, a Frenchman named Passepartout (meaning ‘goes everywhere’ – oh the irony) who is looking for a quiet, easy life with little to do after a career in the circus. Luckily for Passepartout Mr Fogg is a very meticulous gentleman who schedules every minute of his life to a T, going nowhere else but between his house on Savile Row and the Reform Club. He takes lunch and dinner at the club and spends an awful lot of time playing a card game called Whist. This creature of habit is not someone you would suspect of undertaking a journey so foreign and full of unforeseen risk. 

And yet, it transpires that after a conversation with some fellow club members, Mr Fogg has calmly bet £20,000 (half of all the money to his name no less!) that he can indeed travel around the world in 80 days, starting from that very moment. Much to the glee of the gentlemen and the dismay of Passepartout, the adventure had begun.

What follows is a rich and exciting journey around the world using every mode of transport available – including an elephant and a sledge. The nineteenth-century world, particularly the British or ex-British colonies is of particular historical interest to me, so I especially enjoyed being able to traverse through the likes of India, Singapore and America with the characters. Not that Mr Fogg shows any interest in anywhere for the duration of the trip, much to the astonishment of Passepartout and me the reader, however this does add a consistent element of humour to the novel. Indeed, this imperturbably cool-headed gentleman is quite remarkable, and his inexplicably calm nature comes in very useful in the many crises faced en route. He is the antidote to the chaos of Passepartout, who always seems to be getting himself into scrapes.

Towards the end of the voyage, Mr Fogg has got himself quite the motley crew of fellow travellers who have become as invested in this bet as if it were their own, including the conniving police inspector Mr Fix. Together they face a multitude of exciting incidents and mishaps, not least fighting off an attack by a tribe of Sioux native Americans in the middle of a train journey.

Verne’s novel is not only thrilling but witty. Even in English, all his wry comments on the nature of colonialism, stock markets, and Mr Fogg himself for example make for a drily amusing and engaging read alongside all the adventure.

The question now on your mind is probably – but did Mr Fogg and the gang manage to do it? That one I will leave up to you to find out in what is quite frankly a nail-biting and unexpected ending.

Bon voyage and happy reading,

Imo x

Categories
English literature nineteenth century

ImoReads… ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ (1890) by Oscar Wilde

Blog Nº 9

“The horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous beauty”

There is and always will be a soft spot in my heart for Oscar Wilde, certainly one of the most provocative literary figures of the nineteenth century. After going to a production of the brilliantThe Importance of Being Earnest (blog coming soon) with my mum some years ago, I became infatuated and have since read all his short stories, plays, essays and this, his only novel. He was even the subject of my 5000-word Extended Project Qualification (EPQ) undertaken alongside my A-Levels, in which I tasked myself with the question, ‘to what extent was the Victorian press responsible for Oscar Wilde’s celebrity?’ Research for this took me to the National Archives, where I felt privileged to read his handwritten letters from his time in prison. Humbly then, I consider myself to be the epitome of the Wildean ‘fangirl’ if such a thing exists. 

As part of my EPQ I examined the blatant homoeroticism running through The Picture of Dorian Gray, as it was used as evidence against Wilde in his sensationalised trial for ‘gross indecency with other men’ in 1895, a proceeding which certainly elevated his celebrity. Therefore, I am going to use this blog to discuss other key themes in the text such as Gothicism and aestheticism.

This novel is an ill-fated tale of moral decline and philosophic instruction for our unfortunate protagonist, the young aristocrat Dorian Gray. Basil Hallward, Dorian’s close friend and a professional artist, paints a portrait of Dorian because he is completely infatuated by his youth and extraordinary beauty. At first Dorian is delighted with the painting; it only dawns on him that his beauty – so perfectly preserved on the canvas – will fade with age after Basil’s amoral friend, Lord Henry Wotton, informs him of the fact. So enamoured with his own radiant portrait, Dorian exchanges his soul for eternal youth and beauty in an exquisitely Faustian twist. As a result, he is drawn into a corrupt and sinful double life, indulging unspeakable desires in secret while maintaining a gentlemanly façade to polite society. Only the painting bears evidence of his decadence while he himself retains his youthful innocence and beauty.

The lurking presence of the painting that becomes harder and harder for Dorian to ignore is one of my favourite gothic elements in the novel. The physical embodiment of his deal with the devil, the painting becomes more and more hideous each time Dorian does something terrible; as well as ageing repulsively, there is a chilling cruelty in the eyes and mouth of the painted Dorian that grows increasingly and unnervingly noticeable as the novel progresses. Locked away in a dark dusty room high up in the house, the strange horror of the painting is alike to a nightmare you can’t quite shake off. 

And yet, Dorian is not too concerned with the degradation of the painting at first. He is too busy engaging in debauched delights; think opium dens and licentious behaviour in the darkest corners of London.

It is only when his manner and behaviour become too cruel for him to ignore – because indeed the soul can decay in more ways than one – that the painting and what he has done begins to weigh down upon him. In this way, the painting is a motif for an inverted magic mirror. It allows him to live for hedonistic pleasure for a time, but always reflects the ugly truth of his crimes back to him no matter how much he wishes it not to.

I find this very interesting in the context of Wilde’s ‘art for art’s sake’ aesthetic philosophy. Scathingly received by critics at the time for its homoeroticism and allusions to sins that were surely offensive to stiff Victorian moralities, Wilde fiercely defended The Picture of Dorian Gray. In a now infamous aphoristic preface to the non-censored 1891 edition, Wilde vigorously defends art for art’s sake. It is ironic that, although he was referring to the art of his writing, the idea of art for art’s sake is completely vilified in this story. That is, it turns out that the ‘work of art’ that is Dorian should have stayed on the canvas. His pursuit of eternal youth and beauty is his ruination, and it hurts many characters along the way. Wilde’s moral lesson here is that being good trumps looking good; a virtuous soul brings more happiness than beauty, which should only ever be ephemeral.

Dark though this tale is, I must laud its moments of comic relief, provided by Lord Henry ‘Harry’ Wotton. You cannot help but like this gentlemanly rogue despite his amorality due to the Wildean wit bestowed upon him. Many of Wilde’s most famous epigrams come from The Picture of Dorian Gray. An epigram is a phrase that expresses an idea in an interesting, clever, and surprisingly satirical way. Wilde always says the exact opposite of what you are expecting him to say. For example, Harry is of the opinion that ‘it is only shallow people who do not care about appearances’ which is decidedly not how that phrase is usually said. Wilde’s epigrams also turn out to be well-observed and pretty much true, such as in another golden example from Harry; ‘“It is perfectly monstrous”, he said, at last, “the way people go about nowadays saying things against one behind one’s back that are absolutely and entirely true”’. Harry’s enduring friendship with Dorian means that fortunately, readers are exposed to many a memorable epigram over the thirteen chapters.

So then, The Picture of Dorian Gray is a must-read Victorian novel, not only for its thought-provoking themes and intelligent narrative, but for its distinctly Wildean touch. An interesting question to ask yourself when reading it is, who is really to blame for the outcome of the novel? Is it Basil for painting the picture? Is it Harry for targeting Dorian with his bad influence and amoral philosophies? Or is it Dorian himself for enacting his fateful deal? It’s a moral conundrum but I’ll leave that for you to decide…

Happy reading,

Imo x

Categories
Australian Literature World literature

ImoReads… ‘The Secret River’ (2005) by Kate Grenville

Blog Nº 8

“Ain’t nothing in this world just for the taking… A man got to pay a fair price for taking… Matter of give a little, take a little” – Thomas Blackwood

As a British colonial history enthusiast, I found The Secret River deeply thought-provoking in its portrayal of the settlement of Australia by British convicts sentenced to transportation in the nineteenth century. I actually read this novel about a year ago, but I recently went to see the critically acclaimed Sydney Theatre Company’s stage adaptation of it at the National Theatre. Unlike most of the critics, I was left somewhat disappointed by the stage version, so I was inspired to write this blog in the format of ‘novel vs play’ (hence the longer post).

Sadly, the flaws in the play begin in the first scene; astoundingly, it opens with lead character William Thornhill and his family arriving at their secluded 200 acre plot of land up the Hawkesbury River in New South Wales, which he has persuaded his wife Sal that once settled and cultivated, will make them their fortune. I had to do a double take; where indeed was the journey up to this point? Arriving at ‘Thornhill’s Point’ as it comes to be known, is a landmark event in the plot and yet the exclusion of all that comes before completely lessens the impact of this moment. We are missing the whole first section of Grenville’s novel, detailing William’s Dickensian poverty-stricken upbringing in Southwark, London and his constant struggle to rise above his lowly class and status. We miss his marriage to Sal and how an icy winter bars him from working as a boatman, and how this change in fortunes forces him to turn to stealing. He is caught and sentenced to transportation along with Sal, his son Willie, and unborn child.

And then, it is not as if William could simply walk onto a 200 acre plot of land on arrival. He arrives a convict, and over 12 months works tirelessly in the colony until he can buy his freedom. Here we see a crucial change in William’s attitude; he is befriending those above his station, he is mimicking their dress and manners, and most importantly he begins to feel a personal sense of authority and superiority over his peers. The family’s move to Thornhill’s Point is not easy; Sal’s heart is set on returning to London, and agrees only on the basis that they will stay five years maximum to make their fortune before going ‘home’. William agrees, but with his newfound ‘status’ it is clear he has other ideas.

The play erases some very crucial plot and character development points here and this causes a problem for what it chooses to leave in. For example, Sal’s daily tally for how many days they have been there, her constant pining for London and singing of folk songs like ‘The Bells of St Clements’ doesn’t really make sense without the backstory. The play gives William his superior attitude over his peers, but it has not altered his dress, manner or speech from destitute London beggar so it appears confusing and inconsistent, and again nonsensical without the context. 

In the stage version, we are thrown straight into the Thornhills settling their land and the encounters they begin to have with the Aboriginal population. The portrayal of the Aboriginals is something the play should be applauded on. As the novel is told from the perspective of the Thornhills, naturally we are not given much insight into the lives or claims on the land of the Aboriginals. Onstage, we see them living their lives and interacting, lessening the idea of them being the ‘other’ to be feared in the eyes of the audience. The cast playing the Dharug tribal family are Aboriginal performers, and the music and staging was conceived in collaboration with Aboriginal artists, so the play has done well in terms of representation and diversity. Furthermore, the actors playing the Thornhills have ghoulish white paint on their bodies and faces; I thought this was a very effective way of demonstrating how strange and how freakishly white settlers must have looked to Aboriginal peoples, showing that white skin is only ‘normal’ in the eyes of those who have white skin themselves.

The interactions between the Thornhills (plus other white settlers along the river) and the Dharugs are done well; they are sometimes tense, sometimes curious, sometimes funny and always slightly cautious. The prejudice-free childhood friendship between Thornhill’s youngest son Dick and an Aboriginal boy of around the same age is heartwarming to see. This brings me to the other fatal flaw the play has made in terms of adapting the plot. In the novel, following the settlers’ massacre of the Aboriginals (more on this below), Dick cannot forgive his father for his role in this crime. He leaves his family and goes to live upriver with Blackwood, a settler who had already made a life with an Aboriginal woman. He never speaks to his family again and to me this plot point is very effective in showing the stark horror of what the settlers had done, i.e. of what much of colonial settlement was. Of course, in the book the characters age, so Dick is old enough to understand what has happened and make this choice. The actors/characters do not age in the play, which is a shame because the full impact of the massacre in terms of betrayal is not realised. That is, the settlers and Aboriginals were neighbours for years before this assault, whereas in the play their relationship appears much more brief.

However, the massacre itself was staged extremely well. It was emotional, heart-wrenching and almost too difficult to watch. Each Aboriginal was cut down in slow motion, one by one, with the white characters blowing powder from their hands to represent gunshots. Paired with the music and lighting, this was a raw and guilt-tripping depiction of colonial violence. The music and lighting were superb throughout the production in fact, and really helped bring out the setting and emotion of key scenes.

To conclude then, if I were Kate Grenville I’m not sure I would be especially happy with this production. I think her novel is excellent (so I would definitely recommend reading it), and I appreciate what the play tries to do in terms of bringing her moral messages about nineteenth-century colonial activity in Australia to light. But, the careless and almost lazy adaptation of the plot in this production takes away from the progressive steps it takes to do this. It’s an excellent story that needs to be told, but I think in this instance it could have been told much better (sorry, script-writers).

Happy reading,

Imo x

Categories
French Literature

ImoReads… ‘Nikolski’ (2005) by Nicolas Dickner

Blog Nº 5

“En transformant des relations familiales en relations hasardeuses, Dickner porte atteinte à l’institution familiale, la réduisant au hasard des croisements sanguins, et réduisant ceux-ci à une matérialité non signifiante”

Isabelle Boisclair

Nikolski is one of the most interesting yet frustrating novels I have ever read. Hailing from Quebec, Dickner brings age-old questions about Quebecois identity and place in the world to the fore in this humorous and thought-provoking novel. There are many themes that stand out in the text, but I am going to examine incidences of chance and coincidence because for me they are the most impacting. It is times like these when I feel privileged to have studied French, because it means I can read and understand important French-language works.

In brief, Nikolski centres on three protagonists. We have Noah, Joyce, and an unnamed narrator who are all (unbeknown to each other) related thanks to the womanising ways of one Jonas Doucet, who we never meet. This makes it very “coincidental” that for one reason or another, they all end up converging on the same neighbourhood in Montreal.

Now, like many a reader of this book I’m sure, I experienced the classic satisfaction you get from dramatic irony. Knowing about the protagonists’ relation and proximity before they did meant that I was convinced I would just keep reading until they all met by chance and experienced a glorious family reunion, and then I could think smugly, ‘I told you so’. Dickner, sly now I see he is, teases this and makes it seem a sure thing by interweaving smaller incidences of chance and coincidence into the novel. These include but are not limited to:

  • Near-misses or brief encounters between the protagonists
  • Links through secondary characters
  • Kinship of mentality through the protagonists regularly speaking in metaphors and allusions to fish, the sea, boats and all things water
  • Repeated appearances of items or characters to different characters, e.g. le livre à trois têtes, Garifuna maps and a homeless man sporting a maple leaf hat

He also builds these up to an infuriating level; for example, we go from Noah whizzing past Joyce on a bike to the two of them chatting at the airport along with Noah’s son; I was left stunned and incredulous that nothing had come of this opportunity. My reaction was such because all the little episodes of chance and coincidence, that could easily go unnoticed, make us as readers think that there is a deeper meaning to randomness and fate. Surely there must be, if it is woven so much and so easily into everyday life.

So then the awaited day was upon me, the day of reading the last chapter. Finally, the end to this tense build-up and the agonising near misses. You can imagine my horror therefore when the novel just ended; the protagonists never discover their familial links, and they all continue to lead their own lives, running parallel and only momentarily bumping into each other, but never intertwining. Dickner has cleverly constructed a world in which we believe in chance and coincidence; indeed, despite the actual ending being the more realistic outcome given the circumstances, we as readers are more suspicious of the fact that there was no grand reunion than if there had been one.

I have been thinking about this novel and its ending since I finished reading it a couple of months back. Even though I know Dickner has minutely engineered every event in his book, meaning there is no real chance and coincidence at all, I still can’t help but believe in this world he has constructed. If you fancy feeling extremely frustrated, have a read of Nikolski, either in the original French, or in the English translation.

Happy (or in this case infuriating) reading,

Imo x