The Blind Assassin – Margaret Atwood

I didn’t realise how brilliant this novel was until I had finished it. And it is so utterly sad and has left me with a feeling of loss. The brilliance of this novel is that she leaves you guessing as to what is actually going on but leaves hints here and there that perhaps you may pick up and think ‘aha’. Atwood’s characters are so real, you can imagine them as people you know. I thought one was so like a person I knew and I felt like I was getting some insight – but this could be a false feeling, or maybe it isn’t. Old age in all its decrepitude is marvelously described with wryness and bald truth. I absolutely loved her character’s commentary about the everyday. Lots of passages resonated with me, like this one “What fabrications they are, mothers. Scarecrows, wax dolls for us to stick pins into, crude diagrams. We deny them an existence of their own, we make them up to suit ourselves — our own hungers, our own wishes, our own deficiencies.” I felt a bit guilty after reading this because it is true. My mother once said, ‘My name isn’t Mum; I wish people would use my name sometimes.’ This story is set in a small town in Ontario encompassing the time between both world wars. There is fine attention to detail which is a delight to read. This is the first Atwood I’ve read and I can definitely say it won’t be the last.