Early in November, I attended the premiere of A Word after a Word after a Word is Power, the documentary by Nancy Lang and Peter Raymont, filmed during the final year in which Margaret Atwood was writing The Testaments.
It would also turn out to be the last year of her husband’s life, so it captures on film many moments they shared in that year as well.
In case you, like me, had the idea that that would have meant an endless series of events in which Graeme Gibson sat and watched/waited, it was more about their bird-watching activities and literary- and activist-related ventures throughout the years (although Atwood is quick to say that she is not an activist – she’s often asked to contribute to causes but considers real activists to be the ones who are doing the heavy-lifting).
One detail I gleaned from the documentary had an unexpected impact on my recent rereading of The Handmaid’s Tale, the fact that she set it on the campus of Harvard, that the layout of the school was a convenient overlay. It’s something not a lot of people realize, she says. But here it is:
“To the tolling of the bell we walk along the paths once used by students, past buildings that were once lecture halls and dormitories. It’s very strange to be here again. From the outside you can’t tell that anything’s changed, except that the blinds on most of the windows are drawn down. These buildings belong to the Eyes now.”
I imagined Atwood sitting at that typewriter in Berlin and thinking about her schooldays. As though she was checking a mirror and just tilted the glass back over her shoulder, to view herself in the past, to construct this new horrifying narrative of the future. Which is actually, given that it’s based on historical events, a reflection of the past into the future.
Now that I’ve read The Testaments, I find myself reaching for this image of a mirror once again. But is it a mirror, or simply a pane of glass. The connection between these two volumes, The Handmaid’s Tale and The Testaments is so closely intertwined, the relationship so tightly knitted, that it’s difficult to parse out the individual elements.
Handmaid’s: “By telling you anything at all I’m at least believing in you, I believe you’re there, I believe you into being. Because I’m telling you this story I will your existence. I tell, therefore you are.”
Testaments: “In that case, I would destroy these pages I have written so laboriously; and I would destroy you along with them, my future reader.”
The elements which I remarked about recently, as standing out in my rereading of Handmaid’s – time, the significance of gaps and absences, perspective – also play important roles in The Testaments. Those readers who believe The Testaments falls short? They weren’t paying attention.
TIME
Handmaid’s: “Waiting is also a place; it is wherever you wait. For me it’s this room. I am a blank, here, between parentheses. Between other people.” [This from Offred. Whose narrative exists in a parenthesis in a whole ‘nother way, once readers have read the three women’s narratives in The Testaments.]
Testaments: “Time, however, is different when you’re shut up in the dark alone. It’s longer. Nor do you know when you’re asleep and when awake.” [This from Aunt Lydia. Whose time in the dark is not titled as such. But it can’t help but recall all the portions of Offred’s narrative in Handmaid’s, titled “Night”, cyclically punctuating her story.]
SPACE
Handmaid’s: “A rat in a maze is free to go anywhere, as long as it stays inside the maze.” [Offred’s narrative is doubly constrained, as a record of her life of confinement in Gilead, but recorded later, so confined by what she remembers, what she chooses to write down, after she has escaped but before she is free.]
Testaments: “My mood was not melodious. It was rather one of a rat in a maze. Was there a way out? What was that way? Why was I here? Was it a test? What were they trying to find out?” [If you didn’t know this was Aunt Lydia, these phrases would seem to suit Offred better. The position of women in Gilead seems to vary, from the colours of their outfits to their relative access to particular privileges, but ultimately they are all imprisoned.]
PERSPECTIVE
Handmaid’s: “No mother is ever, completely, a child’s idea of what a mother should be, and I suppose it works the other way around as well.” [In Offred’s imprisonment, she has ample opportunity to consider the ways in which she disappointed her mother’s idea of a daughter, of the ways in which she disappointed her daughter’s idea of what Offred/June should have been.]
Testaments: “Right then she was only a torn-up picture. She was an absence, a gap inside me.” [In much the same way, another character in this new narrative struggles to understand what it means to be a daughter without a direct experience of mothering, with the constant awareness of a space where that experience might have been.]
In both The Handmaid’s Tale and The Testaments, the stories of women who came before and women who would come after are lost and reclaimed, recorded and reconsidered.
In the hands of another writer, this could have less to do with perspective, beyond the obvious (that each character has her own truth). In Atwood’s hands, the narrative is meticulously constructed so that the relationship between what can be known and what must be known is appropriately complex.
And we, as readers, are wholly engaged, because we are in a unique position, having only these two volumes of archival material to study: we know things that the characters might have known (but could/did not) and we can assemble an enviable understanding across time and space.
Something else that Atwood discusses in the documentary is the pressure she felt to complete this narrative, not only in the wake of 35 years of questions that readers raised (as described in the note which follows The Testaments) but also in the wake of the 2016 election in the United States.
At seventy-seven years old, she chose to act. And I find myself wondering whether she knew, when she was a young woman, walking those campus quadrangles at Harvard, memorizing that space in that time, that she would need to know those pathways. That later, in her forties, she would retrace those steps in her mind and turn the journey into The Handmaid’s Tale. And that later again, in her seventies, she would look over her shoulder once more, in order to reassess the trajectory that lies ahead, and turn that into The Testaments.
All to ask: where have we walked before, where will we choose to walk next? I think about situations like this, and this, and how much every choice matters. We can choose our own direction. And we must.
I found the possibilities raised by The Handmaid’s Tale terrifying as a young woman, and found the possibilities raised by The Testaments equally as terrifying as an old one.
If any one thing can be said to have eroded my naive faith in human progress, it’s this.
Jeanne! I haven’t heard from you for aaaages: have you been lurking in the shadows? The Testaments is every bit as frightening: agreed. I wonder if it will take another few decades for today’s readers to fully grapple with the tendrils that she allows to thrash around the edges of that story.
Oh, you gave me chills! You also made me super excited because I did not know about the documentary!
Oh, thank you for saying so! The documentary was so good. Mr. BIP and I are still referring to it often!
And during the entire month of Nov and now into Dec, we in Sydney have been blanketed in a smoke haze caused by the fires blazing all around us – the Blue Mountains, the south coast and up into northern NSW. Our air quality is terrible and there is no real solution. Stay inside and do rain dances seems to be the only thing on offer right now!
I didn’t get time to reread The Handmaid’s Tale during Nov like I first hoped, so I appreciate your summary/comparison. It seems accurate and apt.
Like you. I’ve been thinking about the 40 yr old Atwood who wrote THT and the 70 yr old who wrote TT. I’m still mulling over what I want to say about this, but my first thoughts are about comparing Atwood’s attitudes and writing style that has evolved/matured over the 35 yrs. And perhaps also my maturation from a young 20-something first reading THT to a 51 yr old woman reading TT.
THT was such an angry book. It was timely, of it’s time and a wake up call. It was sharp, frightening and harsh. It was ambiguous and fresh. It was the kind of book a younger woman writes – experimental and cutting. It’s the kind of book a younger reader takes personally.
TT was a more thoughtful story. It fleshed out the history and the herstory. It gave us more than one perspective. It was less urgent. Not so much a warning as a take care message. It showed the ways that women find to take (some) power and control even in totalitarian states. It wasn’t perfect (or maybe even necessary) but it shows a more mature writer creating a world more complex and nuanced and layered. As an older reader I appreciated the subtleties at play.
I hope you’re managing to keep well during these troubles. Do you find that people are more motivated to make changes (and to petition for political changes) now that the problems are even more evident? Or is it just more tempting to stay home with a screen and pretend it’s not happening?
You’ve raised so many interesting points. Before I read TT, I came across some disappointment about one of the young characters who didn’t read true to a reader slightly older than she, and I was prepared to share that view (having recently read a novel by an older writer who, IMO, hadn’t captured their younger protagonists’ voices credibly). But, even so, it seems impossible to discuss these two books without talking about the different generations’ experience reflected in them.
I’m not sure that I found THT more angry than TT. If/When you do reread, I’d be curious to see if you still think of it that way. (Or maybe it was partly your anger when you were reading it?) But sharp, oh yes. Pointed and directed, and so so focussed (being only one POV and first-person, at that, so I agree, it felt very personal). It seems like Aunt Lydia’s anger in TT now has that kind of edge to it. All the more cutting for her years of experience. And the fury of Nicole, with her discovery of having been lied to for her entire life (albeit for safety).
I wholly agree with the idea that adding other perspectives is a mark of experience. A willingness to admit complexity that is sometimes less acceptable/less visible when one hasn’t witnessed/experienced so much of that. Fresh from the black-and-white version of Disney films, unwilling/unable to see grey. It takes a risk to put that out in the world, I think, especially these days, when it’s more acceptable to be extreme, when seeming to be able to recognize other perspectives is denounced as an attack on a more extreme group’s position.
Is the series popular in your circles? Is it your sense that more people who are reading TT are reading because they are already interested in Atwood’s writing, or have they come to it via the bestseller list (post-2016) or via the TV show?
I love your detailed comparrison of the two novels. They are very much bound up together. I think in The Testaments the world of Gilead is opened up to us more. You have given me a lot to think about here. I think the timing of this novel for Margaret Atwood is very important both in terms of where her life was when she set out to write it, and in what state the world is in. She is so full of wisdom, she knows what we need.
If you can find the documentary (it’s apparently available on some sort of Biography channel?) I’m sure you would love it. It seems like the kind of thing that will eventually makes its way to the BBC. There are a lot of little snippets about The Testaments and about her approach to learning/engaging/changing: so interesting.
There’s so much to think about in this post. And, although I was already appreciating The T, I now appreciate it even more. Love this!
I just can’t let those letters go – gah!
Do you have a little sticky note puddle with them all written out, so you can arrange and rearrange, to consider all the possibilities? 🙂
I had them all written down… but you’re idea is better! I might have to start again! 😉
I wanted to see what situations you were referring to, so I clicked on the hyperlinks at the very end of your article. Both are upsetting, but the second one, with the air full of pollution, reminds me so clearly of last May when Calgary was engulfed by forest fire smoke. I remember feeling so uneasy about the whole thing when it happened-we were stuck inside because going outside was disgusting (and out of the question with my baby). But I also remember thinking ‘how could this happen here, in Canada of all places? Air that is too polluted to breath’ which goes to show how sheltered we are in first world countries. I think that’s why Atwood’s narrative can be so unsettling as well-she’s placed this dystopian society in a relatively stable place (the US), so there’s more of a sense of urgency-it CAN happen here too.
They’re both instances of extremes, whereas we have come to accept a certain amount of environmental difficulty and a certain amount of white nationalist activity, even expect it in some areas. Normal is just what you’re used to, as Aunt Lydia says. (But I didn’t think the right-wing fervor would be reaching those levels in Germany, of all places, and today on the news on the subway, I learned of the UN’s report that the lives of 20M people a year are now unstable and uprooted entirely due to climate change.) And now the people in California are coping with the same air quality issues. I suppose most of us do need to experience something directly to really believe that we must make substantial changes.