So, when my husband and I watch a movie that seems to have had no point – spoiler alert, they’re almost always French – we turn to one another and have some variation of the same conversation.
“Well, that was a movie.”
”it was movie length, and pictures moved across the screen.”
I love Margaret Atwood (the octothorplet was nearly named Atwood), and this book was neither good nor bad, it was a book. It was book length, and words were printed on the page.
That said, a book by Atwood is like pizza; even when it’s bad, it’s still good. The book follows three adults and their romantic entanglements, and the ways we control one another with love… and it just doesn’t really amount to a whole lot. But I’ll read Atwood’s novelization of the phone book; even if there wasn’t a ton of point to the plot, and no real denouement – seriously, this book feels like she arbitrarily stopped writing, and that someone sent a draft to the printer without the last five chapters attached – it’s a joy letting her take you nowhere. The details here are perfect, and as always Atwood’s characters are so expertly drawn that you can’t help but be intimidated by them.
Anyway, not her best, but extra star for having written The Blind Assassin.