A searching, melancholic study of a time of terror and angst.
A pensive series of joined stories recounting war, exile, and the natural history of pigs.
“Vesna told me that someone in a Croatian bank had said that she couldn’t understand Serbian at all.” So recounts the narrator of Drndić’s opening story, a meaningful observation inasmuch as Serbian and Croatian, while mutually intelligible languages, were spoken by implacable enemies during the civil war that broke up Yugoslavia three decades ago. Those differences have many manifestations: As another story recounts in sometimes-cumbersome detail, in different parts of the former nation the raising and consumption of swine take different forms, such that in the western Balkans, “the cult of roast suckling pig did not emit the authenticity so characteristic of their eastern neighbors.” Of course, observant Muslims in Bosnia and Kosovo eschew pork to begin with, and Croatia “practices Catholicism and chokes on greasy noodles”; what drives former fellow citizens apart are the most minor of variations on food, religion, language, and all the other things of daily life. Those differences also drive many of Drndić’s characters into exile in Canada, where they find plenty of reasons to be nostalgic for the old country: “My country is just a sad, hidebound and backward province of European civilization,” notes one exile, who adds, “It’s better in my country, nevertheless. They don’t understand anything here in Canada.” In the end, it’s enough to make her return to her native land. Drndić’s stories are interwoven with memories of the old Yugoslavia, with the red neckerchiefs of young Pioneers and the midnight door-pounding of the secret police, the endless genealogical obsessions that place people in one ethnic camp or another (“There are two branches of my family...both Croatian, so when...blood cells began to be counted, I didn’t have a problem”) and, in a meaningful passing metaphor, one thing guaranteed to make pigs happy, namely “associating with other pigs.”
A searching, melancholic study of a time of terror and angst.Pub Date: Feb. 7, 2023
ISBN: 9780811234788
Page Count: 192
Publisher: New Directions
Review Posted Online: Nov. 15, 2022
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Dec. 1, 2022
Uneven but fitfully amusing.
Betrayed by her husband, a severely depressed young woman gets drawn into the over-the-top festivities at a lavish wedding.
Phoebe Stone, who teaches English literature at a St. Louis college, is plotting her own demise. Her husband, Matt, has left her for another woman, and Phoebe is taking it hard. Indeed, she's determined just where and how she will end it all: at an oceanfront hotel in Newport, where she will lie on a king-sized canopy bed and take a bottle of her cat’s painkillers. At the hotel, Phoebe meets bride-to-be Lila, a headstrong rich girl presiding over her own extravagant six-day wedding celebration. Lila thought she had booked every room in the hotel, and learning of Phoebe's suicidal intentions, she forbids this stray guest from disrupting the nuptials: “No. You definitely can’t kill yourself. This is my wedding week.” After the punchy opening, a grim flashback to the meltdown of Phoebe's marriage temporarily darkens the mood, but things pick up when spoiled Lila interrupts Phoebe's preparations and sweeps her up in the wedding juggernaut. The slide from earnest drama to broad farce is somewhat jarring, but from this point on, Espach crafts an enjoyable—if overstuffed—comedy of manners. When the original maid of honor drops out, Phoebe is persuaded, against her better judgment, to take her place. There’s some fun to be had here: The wedding party—including groom-to-be Gary, a widower, and his 11-year-old daughter—takes surfing lessons; the women in the group have a session with a Sex Woman. But it all goes on too long, and the humor can seem forced, reaching a low point when someone has sex with the vintage wedding car (you don’t want to know the details). Later, when two characters have a meet-cute in a hot tub, readers will guess exactly how the marriage plot resolves.
Uneven but fitfully amusing.Pub Date: July 30, 2024
ISBN: 9781250899576
Page Count: 384
Publisher: Henry Holt
Review Posted Online: Sept. 13, 2024
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
SEEN & HEARD
Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.
The time is the not-so-distant future, when the US's spiraling social freedoms have finally called down a reaction, an Iranian-style repressive "monotheocracy" calling itself the Republic of Gilead—a Bible-thumping, racist, capital-punishing, and misogynistic rule that would do away with pleasure altogether were it not for one thing: that the Gileadan women, pure and true (as opposed to all the nonbelieving women, those who've ever been adulterous or married more than once), are found rarely fertile.
Thus are drafted a whole class of "handmaids," whose function is to bear the children of the elite, to be fecund or else (else being certain death, sent out to be toxic-waste removers on outlying islands). The narrative frame for Atwood's dystopian vision is the hopeless private testimony of one of these surrogate mothers, Offred ("of" plus the name of her male protector). Lying cradled by the body of the barren wife, being meanwhile serviced by the husband, Offred's "ceremony" must be successful—if she does not want to join the ranks of the other disappeared (which include her mother, her husband—dead—and small daughter, all taken away during the years of revolt). One Of her only human conduits is a gradually developing affair with her master's chauffeur—something that's balanced more than offset, though, by the master's hypocritically un-Puritan use of her as a kind of B-girl at private parties held by the ruling men in a spirit of nostalgia and lust. This latter relationship, edging into real need (the master's), is very effectively done; it highlights the handmaid's (read Everywoman's) eternal exploitation, profane or sacred ("We are two-legged wombs, that's all: sacred vessels, ambulatory chalices"). Atwood, to her credit, creates a chillingly specific, imaginable night-mare. The book is short on characterization—this is Atwood, never a warm writer, at her steeliest—and long on cynicism—it's got none of the human credibility of a work such as Walker Percy's Love In The Ruins. But the scariness is visceral, a world that's like a dangerous and even fatal grid, an electrified fence.
Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.Pub Date: Feb. 17, 1985
ISBN: 038549081X
Page Count: -
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin
Review Posted Online: Sept. 16, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 15, 1985
SEEN & HEARD
BOOK TO SCREEN
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