Sasha Wants More

kaelco:

When pigeons flit outside your window, take it to mean that a storm is brewing. When the storm doesn’t arrive, remember that it has already come and gone in some other part of the world. And that it will come to your part of the world, tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that. Which is to say: Yours is a country of water, which is to say: the river flows. Remember that it flows to the sea, which, in this case, is west. Or, if you look at the world’s reflection on a spoon, east. Keep a fork in hand, always, in case some stabbing needs to be done. Which is to say: There will be no True North as long as there are spoons. Hello, spoon, hello, bald kid, hello, Crystal Snowball that Keeps the World from Disintegrating, have you gotten as much sleep as you would like, is that a toothpick in your belly, how long has it been since you’ve last visited your grandmother’s grave? Hello. Boom boom boom, then boom goes the bassline, boom goes hungry kitten, boom goes the pillbox and someone lost her feet.

My boss, he has a Tumblr. He is more popularly known as The Poet Named Mikael de Lara Co. Attack!

I’ve never been inclined to read this book — hell, I’ve never been inclined to read Atwood. But now is as good a time as any, I guess. And, well, reading The Blind Assassin, I’m very much aware of how masterful the crafting is: A narrative within a novel within the actual novel. A sci-fi tale within a love story within a family saga. It’s admirable, even awe-inspiring.

 Although, a part of me suspects Atwood wrote the “inner novel” separately, and no one wanted to publish it, har, and decided to put it inside a fat novel. [I did that once, in a short story. It didn’t work, mostly because I was too obvious.] And it’s this suspicion that prevents me from completely falling forward into the narrative[s]. That, and the fact that I just don’t like that “inner novel,” also called — confuzzlingly enough, thanks, Atwood — The Blind Assassin. I grit my teeth when the narrative breaks — Iris’ present + reminiscences — to make way for Laura’s posthumously published novel — I just don’t like the form used. I gnash said teeth when the characters in that novel digress to some sci-fi yarn to pass the time — I don’t like that genre.

 I am a grouch. But I trudge on. Mostly because I really like Iris. And there are gems — I’ve quoted parts here — that have me in awe of Atwood’s prose. At least, Atwood’s prose in the Iris context. Augh. I’m trying not to skip Laura’s sandwiched novel altogether, but it’s a struggle.

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Posted here because, uhm, ReadHard’s submissions page hates me.