The Handmaid's Tale

By Margaret Atwood

Now a Hulu series starring Elizabeth Moss. The Handmaid's Tale is an instant classic and eerily prescient cultural phenomenon, from "the patron saint of feminist dystopian fiction" (New York Times)

The Handmaid’s Tale is a novel of such power that the reader will be unable to forget its images and its forecast. Set in the near future, it describes life in what was once the United States and is now called the Republic of Gilead, a monotheocracy that has reacted to social unrest and a sharply declining birthrate by reverting to, and going beyond, the repressive intolerance of the original Puritans. The regime takes the Book of Genesis absolutely at its word, with bizarre consequences for the women and men in its population.

The story is told through the eyes of Offred, one of the unfortunate Handmaids under the new social order. In condensed but eloquent prose, by turns cool-eyed, tender, despairing, passionate, and wry, she reveals to us the dark corners behind the establishment’s calm facade, as certain tendencies now in existence are carried to their logical conclusions. The Handmaid’s Tale is funny, unexpected, horrifying, and altogether convincing. It is at once scathing satire, dire warning, and a tour de force. It is Margaret Atwood at her best.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Feb 17, 1986
• ISBN: 9780547345666

Margaret Atwood

Margaret Atwood, whose work has been published in more than forty-five countries, is the author of over fifty books, including fiction, poetry, critical essays, and graphic novels. In addition to The Handmaid’s Tale, now an award-winning television series, her works include Cat’s Eye, short-listed for the 1989 Booker Prize; Alias Grace, which won the Giller Prize in Canada and the Premio Mondello in Italy; The Blind Assassin, winner of the 2000 Booker Prize; The MaddAddam Trilogy; The Heart Goes Last; Hag-Seed; The Testaments, which won the Booker Prize and was long-listed for the Giller Prize; and the poetry collection Dearly. She is the recipient of numerous awards, including the Peace Prize of the German Book Trade, the Franz Kafka International Literary Prize, the PEN Center USA Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Los Angeles Times Innovator’s Award. In 2019 she was made a member of the Order of the Companions of Honour in Great Britain for her services to literature. She lives in Toronto.

Book preview

Night

1

We slept in what had once been the gymnasium. The floor was of varnished wood, with stripes and circles painted on it, for the games that were formerly played there; the hoops for the basketball nets were still in place, though the nets were gone. A balcony ran around the room, for the spectators, and I thought I could smell, faintly like an afterimage, the pungent scent of sweat, shot through with the sweet taint of chewing gum and perfume from the watching girls, felt-skirted as I knew from pictures, later in miniskirts, then pants, then in one earring, spiky green-streaked hair. Dances would have been held there; the music lingered, a palimpsest of unheard sound, style upon style, an undercurrent of drums, a forlorn wail, garlands made of tissue-paper flowers, cardboard devils, a revolving ball of mirrors, powdering the dancers with a snow of light.

There was old sex in the room and loneliness, and expectation, of something without a shape or name. I remember that yearning, for something that was always about to happen and was never the same as the hands that were on us there and then, in the small of the back, or out back, in the parking lot, or in the television room with the sound turned down and only the pictures flickering over lifting flesh.

We yearned for the future. How did we learn it, that talent for insatiability? It was in the air; and it was still in the air, an afterthought, as we tried to sleep, in the army cots that had been set up in rows, with spaces between so we could not talk. We had flannelette sheets, like children’s, and army-issue blankets, old ones that still said U.S. We folded our clothes neatly and laid them on the stools at the ends of the beds. The lights were turned down but not out. Aunt Sara and Aunt Elizabeth patrolled; they had electric cattle prods slung on thongs from their leather belts.

No guns though, even they could not be trusted with guns. Guns were for the guards, specially picked from the Angels. The guards weren’t allowed inside the building except when called, and we weren’t allowed out, except for our walks, twice daily, two by two around the football field, which was enclosed now by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The Angels stood outside it with their backs to us. They were objects of fear to us, but of something else as well. If only they would look. If only we could talk to them. Something could be exchanged, we thought, some deal made, some tradeoff, we still had our bodies. That was our fantasy.

We learned to whisper almost without sound. In the semidarkness we could stretch out our arms, when the Aunts weren’t looking, and touch each other’s hands across space. We learned to lip-read, our heads flat on the beds, turned sideways, watching each other’s mouths. In this way we exchanged names, from bed to bed:

Alma. Janine. Dolores. Moira. June.

II

Shopping

2

A chair, a table, a lamp. Above, on the white ceiling, a relief ornament in the shape of a wreath, and in the center of it a blank space, plastered over, like the place in a face where the eye has been taken out. There must have been a chandelier, once. They’ve removed anything you could tie a rope to.

A window, two white curtains. Under the window, a window seat with a little cushion. When the window is partly open—it only opens partly—the air can come in and make the curtains move. I can sit in the chair, or on the window seat, hands folded, and watch this. Sunlight comes in through the window too, and falls on the floor, which is made of wood, in narrow strips, highly polished. I can smell the polish. There’s a rug on the floor, oval, of braided rags. This is the kind of touch they like: folk art, archaic, made by women, in their spare time, from things that have no further use. A return to traditional values. Waste not want not. I am not being wasted. Why do I want?

On the wall above the chair, a picture, framed but with no glass: a print of flowers, blue irises, watercolor. Flowers are still allowed. Does each of us have the same print, the same chair, the same white curtains, I wonder? Government issue?

Think of it as being in the army, said Aunt Lydia.

A bed. Single, mattress medium-hard, covered with a flocked white spread. Nothing takes place in the bed but sleep; or no sleep. I try not to think too much. Like other things now, thought must be rationed. There’s a lot that doesn’t bear thinking about. Thinking can hurt your chances, and I intend to last. I know why there is no glass, in front of the watercolor picture of blue irises, and why the window opens only partly and why the glass in it is shatterproof. It isn’t running away they’re afraid of. We wouldn’t get far. It’s those other escapes, the ones you can open in yourself, given a cutting edge.

So. Apart from these details, this could be a college guest room, for the less distinguished visitors; or a room in a rooming house, of former times, for ladies in reduced circumstances. That is what we are now. The circumstances have been reduced; for those of us who still have circumstances.

But a chair, sunlight, flowers: these are not to be dismissed. I am alive, I live, I breathe, I put my hand out, unfolded, into the sunlight. Where I am is not a prison but a privilege, as Aunt Lydia said, who was in love with either/or.

---

The bell that measures time is ringing. Time here is measured by bells, as once in nunneries. As in a nunnery too, there are few mirrors.

I get up out of the chair, advance my feet into the sunlight, in their red shoes, flat-heeled to save the spine and not for dancing. The red gloves are lying on the bed. I pick them up, pull them onto my hands, finger by finger. Everything except the wings around my face is red: the color of blood, which defines us. The skirt is ankle-length, full, gathered to a flat yoke that extends over the breasts, the sleeves are full. The white wings too are prescribed issue; they are to keep us from seeing, but also from being seen. I never looked good in red, it’s not my color. I pick up the shopping basket, put it over my arm.

The door of the room—notmy room, I refuse to saymy—is not locked. In fact it doesn’t shut properly. I go out into the polished hallway, which has a runner down the center, dusty pink. Like a path through the forest, like a carpet for royalty, it shows me the way.

The carpet bends and goes down the front staircase and I go with it, one hand on the banister, once a tree, turned in another century, rubbed to a warm gloss. Late Victorian, the house is, a family house, built for a large rich family. There’s a grandfather clock in the hallway, which doles out time, and then the door to the motherly front sitting room, with its flesh tones and hints. A sitting room in which I never sit, but stand or kneel only. At the end of the hallway, above the front door, is a fanlight of colored glass: flowers, red and blue.

There remains a mirror, on the hall wall. If I turn my head so that the white wings framing my face direct my vision towards it, I can see it as I go down the stairs, round, convex, a pier glass, like the eye of a fish, and myself in it like a distorted shadow, a parody of something, some fairy-tale figure in a red cloak, descending towards a moment of carelessness that is the same as danger. A Sister, dipped in blood.

At the bottom of the stairs there’s a hat-and-umbrella stand, the bentwood kind, long rounded rungs of wood curving gently up into hooks shaped like the opening fronds of a fern. There are several umbrellas in it: black, for the Commander, blue, for the Commander’s Wife, and the one assigned to me, which is red. I leave the red umbrella where it is, because I know from the window that the day is sunny. I wonder whether or not the Commander’s Wife is in the sitting room. She doesn’t always sit. Sometimes I can hear her pacing back and forth, a heavy step and then a light one, and the soft tap of her cane on the dusty-rose carpet.

---

I walk along the hallway, past the sitting room door and the door that leads into the dining room, and open the door at the end of the hall and go through into the kitchen. Here the smell is no longer of furniture polish. Rita is in here, standing at the kitchen table, which has a top of chipped white enamel. She’s in her usual Martha’s dress, which is dull green, like a surgeon’s gown of the time before. The dress is much like mine in shape, long and concealing, but with a bib apron over it and without the white wings and the veil. She puts on the veil to go outside, but nobody much cares who sees the face of a Martha. Her sleeves are rolled to the elbow, showing her brown arms. She’s making bread, throwing the loaves for the final brief kneading and then the shaping.

Rita sees me and nods, whether in greeting or in simple acknowledgment of my presence it’s hard to say, and wipes her floury hands on her apron and rummages in the kitchen drawer for the token book. Frowning, she tears out three tokens and hands them to me. Her face might be kindly if she would smile. But the frown isn’t personal: it’s the red dress she disapproves of, and what it stands for. She thinks I may be catching, like a disease or any form of bad luck.

Sometimes I listen outside closed doors, a thing I never would have done in the time before. I don’t listen long, because I don’t want to be caught doing it. Once, though, I heard Rita say to Cora that she wouldn’t debase herself like that.

Nobody asking you, Cora said. Anyways, what could you do, supposing?

Go to the Colonies, Rita said. They have the choice.

With the Unwomen, and starve to death and Lord knows what all? said Cora. Catch you.

They were shelling peas; even through the almost-closed door I could hear the light clink of the hard peas falling into the metal bowl. I heard Rita, a grunt or a sigh, of protest or agreement.

Anyways, they’re doing it for us all, said Cora, or so they say. If I hadn’t of got my tubes tied, it could of been me, say I was ten years younger. It’s not that bad. It’s not what you’d call hard work.

Better her than me, Rita said, and I opened the door. Their faces were the way women’s faces are when they’ve been talking about you behind your back and they think you’ve heard: embarrassed, but also a little defiant, as if it were their right. That day, Cora was more pleasant to me than usual, Rita more surly.

Today, despite Rita’s closed face and pressed lips, I would like to stay here, in the kitchen. Cora might come in, from somewhere else in the house, carrying her bottle of lemon oil and her duster, and Rita would make coffee—in the houses of the Commanders there is still real coffee—and we would sit at Rita’s kitchen table, which is not Rita’s any more than my table is mine, and we would talk, about aches and pains, illnesses, our feet, our backs, all the different kinds of mischief that our bodies, like unruly children, can get into. We would nod our heads as punctuation to each other’s voices, signaling that yes, we know all about it. We would exchange remedies and try to outdo each other in the recital of our physical miseries; gently we would complain, our voices soft and minor key and mournful as pigeons in the eaves troughs.I know what you mean, we’d say. Or, a quaint expression you sometimes hear, still, from older people: I hear where you’re coming from, as if the voice itself were a traveler, arriving from a distant place. Which it would be, which it is.

How I used to despise such talk. Now I long for it. At least it was talk. An exchange, of sorts.

Or we would gossip. The Marthas know things, they talk among themselves, passing the unofficial news from house to house. Like me, they listen at doors, no doubt, and see things even with their eyes averted. I’ve heard them at it sometimes, caught whiffs of their private conversations. Stillborn, it was. Or, Stabbed her with a knitting needle, right in the belly. Jealousy, it must have been, eating her up. Or, tantalizingly, It was toilet cleaner she used. Worked like a charm, though you’d think he’d of tasted it. Must’ve been that drunk; but they found her out all right.

Or I would help Rita make the bread, sinking my hands into that soft resistant warmth which is so much like flesh. I hunger to touch something, other than cloth or wood. I hunger to commit the act of touch.

But even if I were to ask, even if I were to violate decorum to that extent, Rita would not allow it. She would be too afraid. The Marthas are not supposed to fraternize with us.

Fraternize means to behave like a brother. Luke told me that. He said there was no corresponding word that meant to behave like a sister. Sororize, it would have to be, he said. From the Latin. He liked knowing about such details. The derivations of words, curious usages. I used to tease him about being pedantic.

I take the tokens from Rita’s outstretched hand. They have pictures on them, of the things they can be exchanged for: twelve eggs, a piece of cheese, a brown thing that’s supposed to be a steak. I place them in the zippered pocket in my sleeve, where I keep my pass.

Tell them fresh, for the eggs, she says. Not like last time. And a chicken, tell them, not a hen. Tell them who it’s for and then they won’t mess around.

All right, I say. I don’t smile. Why tempt her to friendship?

3

I go out by the back door, into the garden, which is large and tidy: a lawn in the middle, a willow, weeping catkins; around the edges, the flower borders, in which the daffodils are now fading and the tulips are opening their cups, spilling out color. The tulips are red, a darker crimson towards the stem, as if they have been cut and are beginning to heal there.

This garden is the domain of the Commander’s Wife. Looking out through my shatterproof window I’ve often seen her in it, her knees on a cushion, a light blue veil thrown over her wide gardening hat, a basket at her side with shears in it and pieces of string for tying the flowers into place. A Guardian detailed to the Commander does the heavy digging; the Commander’s Wife directs, pointing with her stick. Many of the Wives have such gardens, it’s something for them to order and maintain and care for.

I once had a garden. I can remember the smell of the turned earth, the plump shapes of bulbs held in the hands, fullness, the dry rustle of seeds through the fingers. Time could pass more swiftly that way. Sometimes the Commander’s Wife has a chair brought out, and just sits in it, in her garden. From a distance it looks like peace.

She isn’t here now, and I start to wonder where she is: I don’t like to come upon the Commander’s Wife unexpectedly. Perhaps she’s sewing, in the sitting room, with her left foot on the footstool, because of her arthritis. Or knitting scarves, for the Angels at the front lines. I can hardly believe the Angels have a need for such scarves; anyway, the ones made by the Commander’s Wife are too elaborate. She doesn’t bother with the cross-and-star pattern used by many of the other Wives, it’s not a challenge. Fir trees march across the ends of her scarves, or eagles, or stiff humanoid figures, boy and girl, boy and girl. They aren’t scarves for grown men but for children.

Sometimes I think these scarves aren’t sent to the Angels at all, but unraveled and turned back into balls of yarn, to be knitted again in their turn. Maybe it’s just something to keep the Wives busy, to give them a sense of purpose. But I envy the Commander’s Wife her knitting. It’s good to have small goals that can be easily attained.

What does she envy me?

She doesn’t speak to me, unless she can’t avoid it. I am a reproach to her; and a necessity.

---

We stood face to face for the first time five weeks ago, when I arrived at this posting. The Guardian from the previous posting brought me to the front door. On first days we are permitted front doors, but after that we’re supposed to use the back. Things haven’t settled down, it’s too soon, everyone is unsure about our exact status. After a while it will be either all front doors or all back.

Aunt Lydia said she was lobbying for the front. Yours is a position of honor, she said.

The Guardian rang the doorbell for me, but before there was time for someone to hear and walk quickly to answer, the door opened inward. She must have been waiting behind it. I was expecting a Martha, but it was her instead, in her long powder-blue robe, unmistakable.

So, you’re the new one, she said. She didn’t step aside to let me in, she just stood there in the doorway, blocking the entrance. She wanted me to feel that I could not come into the house unless she said so. There is push and shove, these days, over such toeholds.

Yes, I said.

Leave it on the porch. She said this to the Guardian, who was carrying my bag. The bag was red vinyl and not large. There was another bag, with the winter cloak and heavier dresses, but that would be coming later.

The Guardian set down the bag and saluted her. Then I could hear his footsteps behind me, going back down the walk, and the click of the front gate, and I felt as if a protective arm were being withdrawn. The threshold of a new house is a lonely place.

She waited until the car started up and pulled away. I wasn’t looking at her face, but at the part of her I could see with my head lowered: her blue waist, thickened, her left hand on the ivory head of her cane, the large diamonds on the ring finger, which must once have been fine and was still finely kept, the fingernail at the end of the knuckly finger filed to a gentle curving point. It was like an ironic smile, on that finger; like something mocking her.

You might as well come in, she said. She turned her back on me and limped down the hall. Shut the door behind you.

I lifted my red bag inside, as she’d no doubt intended, then closed the door. I didn’t say anything to her. Aunt Lydia said it was best not to speak unless they asked you a direct question. Try to think of it from their point of view, she said, her hands clasped and wrung together, her nervous pleading smile. It isn’t easy for them.

In here, said the Commander’s Wife. When I went into the sitting room she was already in her chair, her left foot on the footstool, with its petit point cushion, roses in a basket. Her knitting was on the floor beside the chair, the needles stuck through it.

I stood in front of her, hands folded. So, she said. She had a cigarette, and she put it between her lips and gripped it there while she lit it. Her lips were thin, held that way, with the small vertical lines around them you used to see in advertisements for lip cosmetics. The lighter was ivory-colored. The cigarettes must have come from the black market, I thought, and this gave me hope. Even now that there is no real money anymore, there’s still a black market. There’s always a black market, there’s always something that can be exchanged. She then was a woman who might bend the rules. But what did I have, to trade?

I looked at the cigarette with longing. For me, like liquor and coffee, they are forbidden.

So old what’s-his-face didn’t work out, she said.

No, ma’am, I said.

She gave what might have been a laugh, then coughed. Tough luck on him, she said. This is your second, isn’t it?

Third, ma’am, I said.

Not so good for you either, she said. There was another coughing laugh. You can sit down. I don’t make a practice of it, but just this time.

I did sit, on the edge of one of the stiff-backed chairs. I didn’t want to stare around the room, I didn’t want to appear inattentive to her; so the marble mantelpiece to my right and the mirror over it and the bunches of flowers were just shadows, then, at the edges of my eyes. Later I would have more than enough time to take them in.

Now her face was on a level with mine. I thought I recognized her; or at least there was something familiar about her. A little of her hair was showing, from under her veil. It was still blond. I thought then that maybe she bleached it, that hair dye was something else she could get through the black market, but I know now that it really is blond. Her eyebrows were plucked into thin arched lines, which gave her a permanent look of surprise, or outrage, or inquisitiveness, such as you might see on a startled child, but below them her eyelids were tired-looking. Not so her eyes, which were the flat hostile blue of a midsummer sky in bright sunlight, a blue that shuts you out. Her nose must once have been what was called cute but now was too small for her face. Her face was not fat but it was large. Two lines led downward from the corners of her mouth; between them was her chin, clenched like a fist.

I want to see as little of you as possible, she said. I expect you feel the same way about me.

I didn’t answer, as a yes would have been insulting, a no contradictory.

I know you aren’t stupid, she went on. She inhaled, blew out the smoke. I’ve read your file. As far as I’m concerned, this is like a business transaction. But if I get trouble, I’ll give trouble back. You understand?

Yes, ma’am, I said.

Don’t call me ma’am, she said irritably. You’re not a Martha.

I didn’t ask what I was supposed to call her, because I could see that she hoped I would never have the occasion to call her anything at all. I was disappointed. I wanted, then, to turn her into an older sister, a motherly figure, someone who would understand and protect me. The Wife in my posting before this had spent most of her time in her bedroom; the Marthas said she drank. I wanted this one to be different. I wanted to think I would have liked her, in another time and place, another life. But I could see already that I wouldn’t have liked her, nor she me.

She put her cigarette out, half smoked, in a little scrolled ashtray on the lamp table beside her. She did this decisively, one jab and one grind, not the series of genteel taps favored by many of the Wives.

As for my husband, she said, he’s just that. My husband. I want that to be perfectly clear. Till death do us part. It’s final.

Yes, ma’am, I said again, forgetting. They used to have dolls, for little girls, that would talk if you pulled a string at the back; I thought I was sounding like that, voice of a monotone, voice of a doll. She probably longed to slap my face. They can hit us, there’s Scriptural precedent. But not with any implement. Only with their hands.

It’s one of the things we fought for, said the Commander’s Wife, and suddenly she wasn’t looking at me, she was looking down at her knuckled, diamond-studded hands, and I knew where I’d seen her before.

The first time was on television, when I was eight or nine. It was when my mother was sleeping in, on Sunday mornings, and I would get up early and go to the television set in my mother’s study and flip through the channels, looking for cartoons. Sometimes when I couldn’t find any I would watch the Growing Souls Gospel Hour, where they would tell Bible stories for children and sing hymns. One of the women was called Serena Joy. She was the lead soprano. She was ash blond, petite, with a snub nose and huge blue eyes which she’d turn upwards during hymns. She could smile and cry at the same time, one tear or two sliding gracefully down her cheek, as if on cue, as her voice lifted through its highest notes, tremulous, effortless. It was after that she went on to other things.

The woman sitting in front of me was Serena Joy. Or had been, once. So it was worse than I thought.

4

I walk along the gravel path that divides the back lawn, neatly, like a hair parting. It has rained during the night; the grass to either side is damp, the air humid. Here and there are worms, evidence of the fertility of the soil, caught by the sun, half dead; flexible and pink, like lips.

I open the white picket gate and continue, past the front lawn and towards the front gate. In the driveway, one of the Guardians assigned to our household is washing the car. That must mean the Commander is in the house, in his own quarters, past the dining room and beyond, where he seems to stay most of the time.

The car is a very expensive one, a Whirlwind; better than the Chariot, much better than the chunky, practical Behemoth. It’s black, of course, the color of prestige or a hearse, and long and sleek. The driver is going over it with a chamois, lovingly. This at least hasn’t changed, the way men caress good cars.

He’s wearing the uniform of the Guardians, but his cap is tilted at a jaunty angle and his sleeves are rolled to the elbow, showing his forearms, tanned but with a stipple of dark hairs. He has a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth, which shows that he too has something he can trade on the black market.

I know this man’s name: Nick. I know this because I’ve heard Rita and Cora talking about him, and once I heard the Commander speaking to him: Nick, I won’t be needing the car.

He lives here, in the household, over the garage. Low status: he hasn’t been issued a woman, not even one. He doesn’t rate: some defect, lack of connections. But he acts as if he doesn’t know this, or care. He’s too casual, he’s not servile enough. It may be stupidity, but I don’t think so. Smells fishy, they used to say; or, I smell a rat. Misfit as odor. Despite myself, I think of how he might smell. Not fish or decaying rat; tanned skin, moist in the sun, filmed with smoke. I sigh, inhaling.

He looks at me, and sees me looking. He has a French face, lean, whimsical, all planes and angles, with creases around the mouth where he smiles. He takes a final puff of the cigarette, lets it drop to the driveway, and steps on it. He begins to whistle. Then he winks.

I drop my head and turn so that the white wings hide my face, and keep walking. He’s just taken a risk, but for what? What if I were to report him?

Perhaps he was merely being friendly. Perhaps he saw the look on my face and mistook it for something else. Really what I wanted was the cigarette.

Perhaps it was a test, to see what I would do.

Perhaps he

Reviews for The Handmaid's Tale

[funkturm1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I waited many years to finally read this. It was disturbing but that is necessary to convey the messages in the book. As we continue to wreck our planet, some science fiction may become true. It is a clarion call to pay attention to our life styles and consumption.

[April Davis · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Loved this book and the second installment of this series.

[Tracy Wood · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

It was hard to finish. It was very dry and seemed to drag on. I liked the idea of the story, and the television show is what interested me in reading it. The book, however, was not that interesting. I did force myself to finish it, but it was painful. I didn't finish the sequel. Perhaps her writing style is not for me. To each their own.

[viviennestrauss · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I know I read this in the late 1980s when it came out but frankly, I couldn't remember anything about it except how physically ill it made me feel. I was younger and more innocent the first time around but damn, I thing it was worse reading it now, when we are nearly living in these times.

[jonbrammer-788089 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Margaret Atwood is a literary magpie; her genius is in her ability to assemble pieces of the canon and history into a pastiche that is more effective than if it was purely imaginative. She says in her forward that she wanted everything to be based in reality - no science fiction technology, no dystopian flights of fancy. Gilead resembles some aspects of early puritan society, along with pieces of modern patriarchal dictatorships (Saudi Arabia and Romania under Ceaușescu). What is terrifying is that there is a not-insignificant portion of American apocalyptic evangelicals who want absolute control over women's bodies: enforced pregnancy, women at home, their only purpose to reproduce and raise children.

[bostonbibliophile · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Gripping, chilling and highly disturbing dystopia about a future New England where the country is ruled by a radical Christian government.

[saschenka-316193 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Highly readable Orwellian novel of a woman caught in early phases of theocratic regime (future America) where women are either wives, prostitutes or surrogates, the three male-defined states for women. A mistake to regard the regime as misogynist: the author clearly makes the point that women themselves were responsible equally for system, which oppresses most but not all, an important point when examining authoritarian states. Offred (of Fred: all women are named in relationship to men) is forced to serve as a nameless, faceless surrogate to her Commander and his Wife in a time of low fertility due to environmental and social factors in the Republic of Gilead (gilead = biblical, 'jihad'). Fundamentalism more than misogynism, women as well as men exploiting other women, with progressions of 'how could this happen' showing a certain logic, with the exception of initial catalysm, including idea of 'flip side of the coin' where every gain for one is a loss for another. Ending proves narrator's view that survival is possible because nothing is permanent, previous horrendous regimes (Nazi death camps) had their ending and their survivors, yet does not neatly wrap up fate of protagonist.A woman of no importance, neither heroic nor pandering, one of nameless and faceless many throughout history, whose undocumented lives affected in varying degrees our own contemporary situations.

[mykl8s · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Famous book by famous author - both fames well deserved.

[nanettels · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

When I first read this in the late 1980s, I considered it speculative/science fiction. No, it couldn't happen. How, given our current political and social climate, I'm surprised it hasn't happened yet. Every day the world of OfFred seems closer and closer. Maybe it's good to reread books like the Handmaid's Tale to see what could easily happen. The recent audio version featuring Claire Danes is amazing. Highly recommended.

[mbmackay · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I was late to the party. Alerted to this book by all the hype surrounding the TV series, I was not inclined to read the book - because of all that hype. But I came across a Margaret Atwood introduction to a new edition of Brave New World and I was drawn in - provocative ideas, written in wonderful clear prose - and I decided I needed to read more of this author!The Handmaid's Tale was a fine reward - beautifully written, with a thoroughly thought provoking and creative plot scenario. It's hard to name a genre for the book - sci-fi/fantasy/future history? I'll be rrading more of this author.

[judygibson-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is the first of Margaret Atwood's that I have read. The writing is so good: language so spare and precise, like a series of watercolor washes, that I read it straight through in three days despite the bleakness of the story. The story, ah! How painfully it reads in the present political climate. I'm glad I read it, but I'm also glad I finished.

[auntieg0412 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The story of how the repression happened was scary to me -- I have an uneasy feeling that our society might just be headed in that direction. As Atwood points out, freedoms are rarely lost in one fell swoop. Instead they are taken away slowly enough that people adjust without much protest, until one day it's too late for protest.

Very interesting book, especially the unusual ending.

[dairyqueen84 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is the second time I'm reading this book. I have not watched the series...yet. The first time I read it was shortly after it was first published in 1985. I was 23 or 24 and an unapologetic feminist, which had only intensified after 4 years at an all women's college. I wish I could remember exactly what I thought of the book but I do remember anger. Anger at exactly what? I can't remember. Maybe anger at the Reagan administration and the catering to the religious right, as they were known in those days. And how all too possible this dystopian future seemed to be at the time.

Here we are nearly 35 years later and a future like this STILL seems like even more of a distinct possibility. My book club students recommended that we read this book which I find admirable; they are reading outside their comfort zone of YA literature. But are they? It is, after all, a dystopian novel.

It is still an important book and I look forward to reading Atwood's sequel.

[donhazelwood · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I feel like I wanted this book to be better than it actually is ...

The story is definitely harrowing and the totalitarian state was painted very well by Atwood. I just had a difficult time with the author's story telling.

[sury.vemagal · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Not all that hype. Just so, so.

[drt_4 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Handmaid’s Tail by Margaret AtwoodWhy I picked this book up: United States of Americs Society, my worsening disability with MS, the craziness of people nowadays, walking into stores with suitcases with wheels, loading them up and walking out during daytime hours, a questionable presidential election, crazy inflation, and the what can I say, craziness of our society today I have read 18 books so far in 2022 and it is Feb 20 today. This book was in my too read list so I began reading it this Sunday morning. Thoughts:What an interesting book. Somewhat unbelievable in some ways, but very much believable as it could happen, in the worst scenario ever (look at what's happening today). This is a modern book from the 80s in the USA. It could be reality, it could be women's worst nightmare. I haven't seen the TV show (we have not had TV service for over 20 years) but I read it became a series. So far I like what I'm reading but have difficult seeing how people would watch, not bad but not exciting, just going through their days, the complexity of society, the subservient, position they are in. It left a mark on me, it opens my mind as to how women have been treated over time and how they were considered a 'lesser person vs men.’ Disturbing book, but very thought provoking. It is set up with color clarifications.Offred is a Handmaid in The Republic of Gilead, a religious totalitarian state in what was formerly known as the United States. She is placed in the household of The Commander, Fred Waterford her assigned name, Offred, means Fred. She has only one function: to breed. If Offred refuses to enter into sexual servitude to repopulate a devastated world, she will be hanged. Yet even a repressive state cannot eradicate hope and desire. As she recalls her pre-revolution life in flashbacks, Offred must navigate through the terrifying landscape of torture and persecution in the present day, and between two men upon which her future hangs.Why I finished this read: The book is a very descriptive narrative of a nightmare society. I loved the descriptions so eloquently written by the author. unfortunately the Bubke is used as a set up for creating this scenario in my opinion. It is a book about, the sexes, dystopian, reproduction, motherhood, younger females that can have babies and how females are used, higher class, lower class, structures of society they get run around by guardians, commanders, wives, they were funnelled through the Dr. checks, mistresses and other characters, Luke, Nick, others. It is a book I not hesitate to recommend for people that are able to read, process, sit with and consider. Masterfully conceived and executed, this haunting vision of the future places Margaret Atwood at the forefront of dystopian fiction.Given the writing, the sad setting for women in society, this thought provoking it is, I rated it at 4 stars.

[helenliz_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

There really is nothing new I can say about this, being just about the last person the planet to read this. Having said that, I wonder if reading it now is a different experience now than reading in the 80s. I wonder if it feels less imaginary now, in a world that has become seemingly more polarised, more oppressive, and with women's rights to autonomy over their lives and even their own body being undermined at every turn. In this we read of the experiences of Offred (literally, of Fred), a woman believed to be fertile and currently being a "handmaid" to an elite in the hierarchy of Gilead. Through Offred's memories, we see some of her life before, how she came to be in this position and how under threat she is at every turn. It ends with a short chapter set even further into a fictional future where Gilead seems to be no more and the value of the memoir is being evaluated by academics, including women. It is bleak, it is chilling and it feels all too possible. I can;t say it is enjoyable, but it sucks you in and you find yourself cringing and rooting for Offred in turns. Atwood can certainly write alright.

[michael_lilly-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Thought provoking, and feminist without being anti-male. The story and characters are engaging. I would give it five stars except here are some minor issues about consistency in the time line, and it is too gloomy for some readers to tolerate.

[katherinegregg · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Handmaid's Tale is set in a futuristic dystopian state called Gilead. Gilead is a patriarchial state where childbearing is the only valued contribution women make. Offred, the main character, remembers her previous life with her husband and daughter, but is now a Handmaid. The role of the handmaid is to become impregnated by the commander, of the head of the household and the most important member of society. A ceremony for conception takes place monthly with the wife of the commander in attendance. There is no romance or feeling, it is purely a ritual which must take place until conception. Women in Gilead are not allowed to read, write, own property or handle money. They basically have no rights. The Commanders' wives wear blue, the Handmaid's wear red, the Aunts (train and brainwash the Handmaids), the Marthas (cooks and maids) wear green. Offred befriends Nick, the Commander's assistant, in whom she confides her past. She and her husband had been captured and then separated while trying to escape to Canada. The Commander takes a liking to Offred and meets with her secretly. However Serena Joy, the Commander's wife, discovers their get togethers and calls the police who come and take Offred away in a van. The end of the book takes place far in the future at a symposium where Gilead is being discussed. A tape recording, presumably by Offred, tells bits and pieces of her story and life in the Republic of Gilead.

[sallyelizabethmurphy · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Disturbing, yet intriguing and hard to stop reading

[kristilabrie · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

An unmatched level of prose in this one. Parts of the story stopped me short, with haunting flickers of relatability in traumatic female experiences. It's obviously a classic that I needed to finally check off my TBR list, but now I have to read the sequel because the ending left me hanging off a cliff!

[familiar_diversions · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Content warnings for rape, homophobia, the killing of a pet cat (off-page), victim blaming, and probably other things I'm forgetting.The protagonist of this story is referred to as "Offred," but this is only an indicator that she belongs to a man named Fred. Her real name in the time before, which was only about three or so years ago, was something else and is never mentioned.Offred is a Handmaid in the Republic of Gilead, one of the women assigned the task of attempting to bear a particular Commander's child. As we learn what her daily life is like, and how she came to be the narrator of this story, we also learn what her life used to be like in the time before, when she had a job, a husband, and a young daughter and was like any other contemporary woman.For once my IRL book club has picked something that genuinely worked for me. It was a bit of a surprise, since The Handmaid's Tale was something I'd avoided reading for years because it sounded deeply unpleasant.It's true, it wasn't exactly a fun read, particularly since it's still depressingly timely. At the same time, there were aspects to the writing style that allowed me to stay emotionally distanced enough that this was more a disturbing read than a soul-crushing one.First, there was Offred's habit of making up stories about how things might have happened - how things might have turned out for her husband, her child, etc. - often different possibilities one right after the other. Although it happened often enough to become somewhat annoying, it did allow both Offred and me, the reader, to choose whichever possible reality was most acceptable at any particular moment. For example, it was likely that Offred's husband and mother died horribly, but because she never witnessed what happened to them and, at best, only got information thirdhand, both she and I could cling to the better possibilities, or not, as needed. This ambiguity extended to the ending - it was never revealed what happened to Offred, although the "historical notes" epilogue (a fictional academic analysis of Offred's story as a surviving record of early Gilead life) discussed several likely possibilities.Second, there was the author's decision to never use quotation marks or any similar punctuation to indicate when text was dialogue. Context could tell you when words were dialogue, but as I've already said, Offred had a habit of making stories up. As a result, none of the dialogue felt real.I still have absolutely no desire to watch the TV show, because as annoying as the lack of quotations and all that ambiguity could occasionally be, I suspect that seeing Gilead and its Handmaids, Commanders, Wives, and Marthas (servants) onscreen would make everything too hard and sharp. The world is hard, sharp, and terrifying enough as it is. I already know that there are people who genuinely want something like Gilead to exist, although those people would either dismiss or not notice the parts where Gilead didn't even make those who supported it happy. They'd tell themselves they'd do it "better." (A quote that will stick with me: "Better never means better for everyone, he says. It always means worse, for some" (211).)This was a good book, and a much faster read than I expected. I wish I could say that it felt over-the-top, or that the speed with which things happened was difficult to believe. Maybe I'd have felt that way prior to 2017.(Original review posted on A Library Girl's Familiar Diversions.)

[nosborm · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Terrifying. Comparable in many ways to 1984. A book which is still hauntingly relevant in too many ways. Engrossing and thought-provoking. Painfully important. Poetic.

[write5review · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Best of 20th Century Dystopia

According to the best dystopian novels of the 20th century, we should be living or on our way to living in any of a various number of hellholes: a dehumanized, caste hierarchy of factory-manufactured people (Brave New World, 1932); the overthrow of democratic government in the U.S. (It Can’t Happen Here, 1935); a dehumanized, brutal dictatorship propped up by manufactured history and terror (Nineteen Eighty-Four, 1949); a dehumanized world that suppresses feelings and enforces subjugation by destroying literary thought (Fahrenheit 451, 1953); a “crime free” world in which authorities use predictive techniques to forestall murder (The Minority Report, 1956); a crime ridden world in which science attempts to recondition gangbangers (A Clockwork Orange, 1962); and to bring a potentially very long list to the point, the book in hand, a theocratic dictatorship in a willfully destroyed environment in which women find themselves formally classified and subjugated under the control of men, The Handmaid’s Tale, 1985.

All these imaginings of the world gone wrong are worth your reading time, but Margaret Atwood’s tale is somewhat special among them. She focuses squarely on the reduction of women as mere productive machinery, and a handful as reproductive engines. At its most basic and its most forceful, The Handmaid’s Tale is about women deprived of all rights and forced into sexual slavery, women reduced to their most elemental biological function, and valued for nothing else.

In broad strokes, we find ourselves in the former United States of America now transformed after a bloody revolution into the Republic of Gilead some time in an indeterminate future. Ofred (meaning Of Fred, as belonging to him) takes up her station in the Commander’s house. Her purpose is to produce a child for the Commander and his wife, who, one or the other or both, are sterile, through a ritualized ersatz religious ceremony, basically a depersonalizing and dehumanizing approach to baby making. During the telling, we learn of Ofred’s previous life, in which she had a child, her training and indoctrination to be a (forced) Handmaid, the resentment and anger directed at her by other women, and her own determination to maintain her personality and eventually escape to free Canada.

This novel has sold very well since publication. Lately, sales have been brisk due to its serialization on Hulu. Perhaps you have watched the first season and wish to compare it to the original. You’ll find it true in the most critical ways and expansive in others. Reading the book, you marvel at how strange is this work of female slavery. The series brings the total bizarreness of Gilead to vivid life. Some scenes are quite horrifying, not because they are violent, but because they feel so alien in a way you think the characters should realize. Even more freakish than the impregnation ceremony is the birth ritual; it’s a jaw dropper on film.

Finally, as you read the novel or view the series or do both, keep this in mind: much of what you will read and see is not entirely fiction. As Margaret Atwood has stated and as the press has confirmed, much of the oppression is happening currently in the U.S. and other countries. Some examples include: gunning down refugees fleeing an oppressive government; children taken from women and given to well off families; forcing women to bear children and valuing them for only this ability; marital rape; decreasing fertility rates in developed countries; restrictions on women’s free movement and the ability to own property; protesters being shot; genital mutilation of women; and more. It’s this borrowing from the real world that makes Atwood’s dystopian Gilead even more terrifying.

[oldandnewbooksmell · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The no quotation marks at first were a huge getting used to. I understand why Margaret Atwood did it to show it had happened in the past, but it was still confusing at times when reading.

[jamestomasino · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Fabulous writing. Really engrossing.

[sunyidean · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Important work with powerful concepts but a hamfisted execution and flat ending.

[islandmum84 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

My first book by Margaret Atwood and it would certainly not be the last. The writing style is superb. The story is so imaginatively real that it is sometimes difficult to realize that it is just a story. The retelling of Offred makes you questions your own belief and behavior and makes you wonder how would you behave in Gilead as opposed to your current self belief. This is one of the most important piece of writing I have ever read.

[ionas_7 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The Corona crisis affected me in that I was not able to order the books I wanted but only those that the various libraries in my city had. This was why I came to order The Handmaid’s Tale, which was a book I ordinarily would not have thought of reading. This is probably one of the reasons for my not being delighted with it. Perhaps I should never have read it. It is apparently rather popular, and it is stated on the cover that it is now a major TV series. I had to struggle to try to finish it and didn’t quite manage, since I kept falling asleep while reading it. I also had to struggle to understand it, since I prefer things being spelt out for me so I don’t have to think too much about who is who and what is what. The dystopian society portrayed is called Gilead; the characters are not allowed to be individuals, but belong to one group or another. There are, for instance, women who bear children, and for some reason these are called handmaids. In my Oxford English dictionary a handmaid is defined as “a female servant” not “a child-bearing woman”. There are “angels”, who are some sort of guards. There are “Commanders”, whose name is self-explanatory, and there are the “wives”, presumably the Commanders’ wives. There are “Aunts”, whoever they are. There are Marthas, who apparently help with practical things. Perhaps they also look after the babies. There are “Unwomen”, women who apparently have committed what is regarded as a heinous sin. I’m not sure, but it may be that unwomen are hanged. As the title indicates, the story is told by a hand-maid, whose function is to have intercourse with a Commander, or Commanders, and conceive. It took me a while to find out her name, but it is Offred (Of Fred). Though the name indicates that Offred belongs to Fred, I can’t find Fred anywhere in the book. The various women are not permitted to have sexual or romantic relationships – they just have to mate with the Commanders and become pregnant. If the women, or anyone else, do not behave themselves, they are hanged from a wall, and left hanging there for a while. Offred had a normal life previously, a husband, Luke, and a daughter, but she does not know whether they are still alive or not. The women are not allowed books and must not read. Offred is attracted to a driver/handyman, or whatever he is, and manages to get together with him, though this is strictly forbidden. There are several other women together with Offred, but I didn’t understand what function these perform; perhaps they are also handmaids. (I think my main problem in understanding the book was that I kept dropping off to sleep while reading it.) The other women have normal names like Moira, Rita, Cora, Janine and Dolores. One of the others is called Ofglen. I didn’t get why there was one other with an ”Of” name while the others had normal names. (Now I see that Janine is also called Ofwarren.) At one point one of the Commanders invites Offred to visit him regularly. They don’t have sex. He wants her to play scrabble with him and kiss him like she meant it. It is like some sort of normal relationship. The book is well-written and to a certain extent readable; it just didn’t really appeal to me. Judge for yourself.

[the_literary_jedi · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Free audiobook via YouTube, read by Claire Danes

This is only second audiobook I’ve ever listened too and this time I didn’t make the mistake of laying down to listen! This was a great listen and and a fantastic book. So many modern parallels, I have already planned a curriculum unit around it.

Offred is a woman of Gilead (Bangor, Maine) and a Handmaiden - a woman whose sole purpose is to breed for her Commander’s wife.

The political and gender issues put forth in Atwood’s book are as relevant today as when first published.

The story unfolds in flashbacks and moments of time to tell how Offred became a handmaiden and how the world of Gilead came to be. The brutality and oppression in the plot drive it forward relentlessly between world as it was and a newfound ardent patriarchy.

A must read