Booker prize winner, The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood, has a layered and complex narrative.
The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.
An old woman called Iris Griffen reflects on her own life, and her sister Laura’s suicide. The sisters came from a wealthy family, with Iris married off to her father’s business rival in order to rescue the family fortunes after a series of incidents threaten to send him broke. Iris is determined to document her story before she dies, with the hope of it facilitating a reconciliation with her estranged granddaughter Sabrina.
This is how the girl who couldn’t speak and the man who couldn’t see fell in love.
Iris’s telling of her life is interspersed with chapters from her sister’s novel, The Blind Assassin, published after she drove off a bridge to her death. The book made her posthumously famous, giving her a cult like status. The Blind Assassin is about two anonymous lovers having a secret affair.
Should is a futile word. It’s about what didn’t happen. It belongs in a parallel universe. It belongs in another dimension of space.
A third narrative is introduced by the anonymous man telling lover a science fiction story about a blind assassin and a sacrificial virgin who fall in love against the odds. A fourth narrative exists in newspaper and magazine stories from the 1930s and ‘40s.
The best way of keeping a secret is to pretend there isn’t one.
The pieces of the disparate narratives are masterfully bought together in the final pages. The Blind Assassin is a bleak but beautiful tale about lies, coverups, gender, class, family tragedies and the unreliability of memory.
If you knew what was going to happen, if you knew everything that was going to happen next—if you knew in advance the consequences of your own actions—you’d be doomed. You’d be ruined as God. You’d be a stone. You’d never eat or drink or laugh or get out of bed in the morning. You’d never love anyone, ever again. You’d never dare to.










