I especially love that she's an everyday person, not particularly a hero or "just" a victim. She's real. I love that the book doesn't give anything away too early. You're definitely held in suspense! Beyond how entertaining it is, it gets so scary because you see how very real it is. It's very raw in some places. It has just enough in common with how things are in reality that you almost start fearing it'll happen to you. Popular Books Page Views. Related Books Reads. Man Booker Prize Nominee , Nebula Award Nominee for Best Novel , Arthur C. Clarke Award for Best Novel , Audie Award for Fiction , Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Fiction Fiction , Classics , Science Fiction , Dystopia , Science Fiction , Feminism ,. Surfacing pdf by Margaret Atwood. Howcanthey behappy? Ican feeltheir bright blackeyesonus, the way they lean alittle forward tocatch ouranswers, thewomen especially, butthemen too:weare secret, forbidden, weexcite them.

Ofglen saysnothing. Butsometimes it'sasdangerous nottospeak. Ihave tosay something. CHAPTER 6 A block pastAllFlesh, Ofglen pauses, asifhesitant aboutwhich waytogo. We have a choice. Wecould gostraight back,orwe could walkthelong wayaround. Wealready know which waywewill take, because wealways takeit. We walk, sedately. Thesunisout, inthe sky there arewhite fluffyclouds, thekind that look likeheadless sheep. Givenourwings, ourblinkers, it'shard tolook up,hard toget the fullview, ofthe sky, ofanything. Butwecan doit,alittle atatime, aquick move of the head, upand down, tothe side andback. Wehave learned tosee theworld in gasps. To the right, ifyou could walkalong, there's astreet thatwould takeyoudown towards the river. There's aboathouse, wheretheykeptthesculls once,andsome bridges; trees, green banks, whereyoucould sitand watch thewater, andtheyoung menwith their naked arms,theiroarslifting intothesunlight asthey played atwinning.

Onthe way to the river aretheolddormitories, usedforsomething elsenow, withtheir fairy-tale turrets, painted whiteandgold andblue. When wethink ofthe past it'sthe beautiful things wepick out. Wewant tobelieve itwas alllike that. The football stadium isthat way too,where theyhold theMen's Salvagings. Aswell as the football games. Theystillhave those. I don't gotothe river anymore, orover bridges. Oron the subway, although there'sa station rightthere. We're notallowed on,there areGuardians now,there's noofficial reason forustogo down those steps, rideonthe trains under theriver, intothemain city. Why would wewant togo from here tothere? Wewould beuptono good andthey would knowit. The church isasmall one,oneofthe first erected here,hundreds ofyears ago.

Itisn't used anymore, exceptasamuseum. Insideityou canseepaintings, ofwomen inlong somber dresses, theirhaircovered bywhite caps, andofupright men,darkly clothed and unsmiling. We don't goin,though, butstand onthe path, looking atthe churchyard. Theold gravestones arestillthere, weathered, eroding,withtheir skulls andcrossed bones, memento mori,theirdough- facedangels, theirwinged hourglasses toremind usofthe passing ofmortal time,and,from alater century, theirurnsandwillow trees,for mourning. They haven't fiddledwiththegravestones, orthe church either. It'sonly themore recent history thatoffends them. Ofglen's headisbowed, asifshe's praying. Shedoes thisevery time. Maybe, Ithink, there's someone, someoneinparticular gone,forher too; aman, achild. ButIcan't entirely believeit. Ithink ofher asawoman forwhom everyactisdone forshow, is acting ratherthanareal act. She does suchthings tolook good, Ithink.

She's outto make thebest ofit. But that iswhat Imust lookliketoher, aswell. Howcanitbe otherwise? Now weturn ourbacks onthe church andthere isthe thing we've intruth come tosee: the Wall. The Wall ishundreds ofyears oldtoo; orover ahundred, atleast. Likethesidewalks, it's red brick, andmust once havebeen plainbuthandsome. Nowthegates havesentries and there areugly newfloodlights mountedonmetal postsabove it,and barbed wire along thebottom andbroken glasssetinconcrete alongthetop. No one goes through thosegateswillingly, theprecautions areforthose tryingtoget out, though tomake iteven asfar asthe Wall, fromtheinside, pasttheelectronic alarm system, wouldbenext toimpossible. Beside themain gateway therearesixmore bodies hanging, bythe necks, theirhands tied infront ofthem, theirheads inwhite bagstipped sideways ontotheirshoulders. There musthave been aMen's Salvaging earlythismorning. Ididn't hearthebells.

Perhaps I'vebecome usedtothem. We stop, together asifon signal, andstand andlook atthe bodies. Itdoesn't matterif we look. We're supposed tolook: thisiswhat theyarethere for,hanging onthe Wall. Sometimes they'llbethere fordays, untilthere's anew batch, soasmany people as possible willhave thechance tosee them. What theyarehanging fromishooks. Thehooks havebeen setinto thebrickwork ofthe Wall, forthis purpose. Notallofthem areoccupied. Thehooks looklikeappliances for the armless. Orsteel question marks,upside- downandsideways. It's the bags overtheheads thataretheworst, worse thanthefaces themselves would be. Itmakes themen likedolls onwhich thefaces havenotyetbeen painted; like scarecrows, whichinaway iswhat theyare,since theyaremeant toscare. Orasiftheir heads aresacks, stuffed withsome undifferentiated material,likeflour ordough.

It'sthe obvious heaviness ofthe heads, theirvacancy, theway gravity pullsthem down and there's nolife anymore tohold them up. The heads arezeros. Though ifyou look andlook, aswe are doing, youcanseetheoutlines ofthe features under thewhite cloth, likegray shadows. Theheads aretheheads ofsnowmen, withthe coal eyes andthecarrot noses fallenout. The heads aremelting. But onone bagthere's blood,whichhasseeped through thewhite cloth, where the mouth musthave been. Itmakes another mouth,asmall redone, likethemouths painted withthick brushes bykindergarten children.

Achild's ideaofasmile. Thissmile of blood iswhat fixestheattention, finally. Thesearenotsnowmen afterall. The men wear white coats, likethose wornbydoctors orscientists. Doctorsand scientists aren'ttheonly ones, thereareothers, butthey must have hadarun onthem this morning. Eachhasaplacard hungaround hisneck toshow whyhehas been executed: adrawing ofahuman fetus. Theyweredoctors, then,inthe time before, when such things werelegal. Angel makers, theyused tocall them; orwas thatsomething else? They've beenturned upnow bysearches throughhospital records, or,or— more likely, sincemosthospitals destroyed suchrecords onceitbecame clearwhatwasgoing to happen —by informants: ex-nurses perhaps, orapair ofthem, sinceevidence froma single woman isno longer admissible; oranother doctor,hopingtosave hisown skin; or someone alreadyaccused, lashingoutatan enemy, oratrandom, insome desperate bid forsafety.

Though informants arenotalways pardoned. These men,we've beentold,arelike war criminals. It'snoexcuse thatwhat theydidwas legal atthe time: theircrimes areretroactive. Theyhavecommitted atrocitiesandmust be made intoexamples, forthe rest. Though thisishardly needed. Nowoman inher right mind, these days,would seektoprevent abirth, should shebesolucky asto conceive. What weare supposed tofeel towards thesebodies ishatred andscorn. Thisisn'twhat I feel. These bodies hanging onthe Wall aretime travelers, anachronisms. They'vecome here fromthepast. What Ifeel towards themisblankness. WhatIfeel isthat Imust notfeel. What Ifeel is partly relief,because noneofthese menisLuke. Lukewasn't adoctor. I look atthe one redsmile. Theredofthe smile isthe same asthe red ofthe tulips in Serena Joy'sgarden, towards thebase ofthe flowers wheretheyarebeginning toheal.

The redisthe same butthere isno connection. Thetulips arenottulips ofblood, thered smiles arenotflowers, neitherthingmakes acomment orthe other. Thetulip isnot a reason fordisbelief inthe hanged man,orvice versa. Eachthingisvalid andreally there. Itis through afield ofsuch validobjects thatImust pickmyway, every dayand in every way. Iput alot ofeffort intomaking suchdistinctions Ineed tomake them. Ineed to be very clear, inmy own mind, I feel atremor inthe woman besideme. Isshe crying? Inwhat waycould itmake her look good? Ican't afford toknow, Myown hands areclenched, Inote, tightaround the handle ofmy basket, Iwon't giveanything away. Ordinary, saidAunt Lydia, iswhat youareused to. This maynotseem ordinary toyou now, butafter atime itwill, Itwill become ordinary. Night CHAPTER 7 The night ismine, myown time, todo with asIwill, aslong asIam quiet.

Aslong asI don't move. Aslong asIlie still. The difference betweenlieand lay. Lay isalways passive. Evenmenused tosay, I'dlike toget laid. Though sometimes theysaid, I'dlike to lay her. Allthis ispure speculation. Idon't really knowwhatmenused tosay. Ihad only their words forit. I lie, then, inside theroom, under theplaster eyeinthe ceiling, behindthewhite curtains, between thesheets, neatlyasthey, andstep sideways outofmy own time. Though thisistime, noramIout ofit. But thenight ismy time out. Where should Igo? Somewhere good. Moira, sittingonthe edge ofmy bed, legscrossed, ankleonknee inher purple overalls, one dangly earring, thegold fingernail shewore tobe eccentric, acigarette betweenher stubby yellow-endedfingers. Let'sgofor abeer. You're getting ashesinmy bed, Isaid. If you'd make ityou wouldn't havethisproblem, saidMoira. In half anhour, Isaid. Ihad apaper duethenext day,what wasit? Psychology, English, economics. Westudied thingslikethat, then.

Onthe floor ofthe room there werebooks, open facedown, thisway andthat, extravagantly. Now, saidMoira. Youdon't need topaint yourface, it'sonly me. What's yourpaper on? I just didone ondate rape. Date rape, Isaid. You're sotrendy. Itsounds likesome kindofdessert. Ha- ha, said Moira. Getyour coat. She gotitherself andtossed itat me. I'mborrowing fivebucks offyou, okay? Or inapark somewhere, withmymother. Howoldwas I? Itwas cold, ourbreaths came out infront ofus, there werenoleaves onthe trees; graysky,twoducks inthe pond, disconsolate. Breadcrumbs undermyfingers, inmy pocket. That'sit:she said wewere going tofeed theducks. But there weresome women burning books,that'swhatshewas really therefor. Tosee her friends; she'dliedtome, Saturdays weresupposed tobe my day.

Iturned away from her,sulking, towards theducks, butthefiredrew meback. There weresome men,too,among thewomen, andthebooks weremagazines. They must have poured gasoline, becausetheflames shothigh, andthen theybegan dumping themagazines, fromboxes, nottoomany atatime. Some ofthem were chanting; onlookers gathered. Their faces werehappy, ecstatic almost. Even mymother's face, usually pale,thinnish, lookedruddyandcheerful, likeaChristmas card;andthere was another woman, large,withasoot smear downhercheek andanorange knittedcap,I remember her. You want tothrow oneon,honey? Good riddance tobad rubbish, shesaid, chuckling. shesaid tomy mother. It she wants to,my mother said;shehad away oftalking aboutmetoothers asifI couldn't hear. The woman handed meone ofthe magazines. Ithad apretty woman onit,with no clothes on,hanging fromtheceiling byachain wound around herhands. Ilooked atit with interest.

Itdidn't frighten me. Ithought shewas swinging, likeTarzan fromavine, on the TV. Don't lether see it,said mymother. Here,shesaid tome, toss itin, quick. I threw themagazine intotheflames. Itriffled openinthe wind ofits burning; bigflakes of paper cameloose, sailedintotheair,still onfire, parts ofwomen's bodies,turningto black ash,inthe air,before myeyes. But then what happens, butthen what happens? I know Ilost time. There musthave been needles, pills,something likethat. Icouldn't havelostthat much time without help. Youhave hadashock, theysaid. I would comeupthrough aroaring andconfusion, likesurf boiling. Ican remember feeling quitecalm. Ican remember screaming, itfelt like screaming thoughitmay have been onlyawhisper, Whereisshe? What haveyoudone withher?

There wasnonight orday; onlyaflickering. Afterawhile there werechairs again, anda bed, andafter thatawindow. She's ingood hands, theysaid. Withpeople whoarefit. You areunfit, butyou want the best forher. Don't you? They showed meapicture ofher, standing outsideonalawn, herface aclosed oval. Her light hairwas pulled backtightbehind herhead. Holding herhand wasawoman I didn't know. Shewasonly astall asthe woman's elbow. You've killedher,Isaid. Shelooked likeanangel, solemn, compact, madeofair. She waswearing adress I'dnever seen,whiteanddown tothe ground. I would liketobelieve thisisastory I'mtelling. Ineed tobelieve it. Imust believe it. Those whocanbelieve thatsuch stories areonly stories haveabetter chance. If it's astory I'mtelling, thenIhave control overtheending. Thentherewillbeanending, to the story, andreallifewill come afterit. Ican pick upwhere Ileft off. It isn't astory I'mtelling. It's also astory I'mtelling, inmy head; asIgo along.

Tell, rather thanwrite, because Ihave nothing towrite withandwriting isin any case forbidden. Butifit's astory, eveninmy head. I must betelling itto someone. Youdon't tellastory onlytoyourself. There'salways someone else. Even when thereisno one. A story islike aletter. Justyou, without aname. Attaching aname attaches youtothe world offact, which isriskier, morehazardous: whoknows whatthe chances areoutthere, ofsurvival, yours? Iwill say you, you,likeanold love song. You can mean morethanone. You canmean thousands. I'mnot inany immediate danger,I'llsay toyou. I'll pretend youcanhear me. But it'snogood, because Iknow youcan't. Waiting Room CHAPTER 8 The good weather holds. It'salmost likeJune, whenwewould getoutour sundresses and oursandals andgofor anice cream cone. There arethree newbodies onthe Wall. One isapriest, stillwearing theblack cassock. That'sbeenputonhim, forthe trial, even though theygave upwearing thoseyearsago,when thesect wars firstbegan; cassocks made themtooconspicuous.

Thetwoothers havepurple placards hungaround their necks: Gender Treachery. Theirbodies stillwear theGuardian uniforms. Caught together, theymust have been, butwhere? Abarracks, ashower? It'shard tosay. The snowman withthered smile isgone. I'malways theone tosay this. Sometimes Ifeel that ifIdidn't sayit,she would stayhere forever. Butisshe mourning orgloating? Istill can't tell. Without aword sheswivels, asifshe's voice- activated, asifshe's onlittle oiled wheels, as ifshe's ontop ofamusic box,Iresent thisgrace ofhers. Iresent hermeek head, bowed asifonto aheavy wind. Butthere isno wind. We leave theWall, walkback theway wecame, inthe warm sun. Ifeel rather thanseeherhead turntowards me, waiting forareply. Maydayusedtobe adistress signal, a long timeago, inone ofthose warswestudied inhigh school. Ikept getting them mixed up,butyou could tellthem apart bythe airplanes ifyou paid attention. Itwas Luke who toldmeabout mayday, though. Mayday, mayday,forpilots whose planes hadbeen hit, and ships —was itships too?

Maybe itwas SOS forships. Iwish Icould look itup. And itwas something fromBeethoven, forthe beginning ofthe victory, inone of those wars. Do you know whatitcame from? No, Isaid. It'sastrange wordtouse forthat, isn'tit? Newspapers andcoffee, onSunday mornings, beforeshewas born. There werestill newspapers, then. Weused toread them inbed. It's French, hesaid. From m'aidez. Help me. Coming towards usthere's asmall procession, afuneral: threewomen, eachwitha black transparent veilthrown overherheaddress. AnEconowife andtwoothers, the mourners, alsoEconowives, herfriends perhaps. Theirstriped dresses areworn- looking, asare their faces. Someday,when timesimprove, saysAunt Lydia, noone will have tobe anEconowife. The firstone isthe bereaved, themother; shecarries asmall black jar. From thesize of the jaryou cantellhow olditwas when itfoundered, insideher,flowed toits death.

Two or three months, tooyoung totell whether ornot itwas anUnbaby. Theolder onesand those thatdieatbirth have boxes. We pause, outofrespect, whiletheygoby. Iwonder ifOfglen feelswhatIdo, pain likea stab, inthe belly. Weputour hands overourhearts toshow these stranger womenthat we feel with them intheir loss. Beneath herveil thefirst one scowls atus. One ofthe others turnsaside, spitsonthe sidewalk. TheEconowives donot like us. We gopast theshops andcome tothe barrier again,andarepassed through. We continue onamong thelarge empty- looking houses, theweedless lawns. Atthe corner near thehouse whereI'mposted, Ofglenstops,turnstome.

Theright farewell. Shehesitates, asifto say something more, butthen sheturns away andwalks downthestreet. Iwatch her. She's likemy own reflection, inamirror fromwhich Iam moving away. In the driveway, Nickispolishing theWhirlwind again. He'sreached thechrome atthe back. Iput mygloved handonthe latch ofthe gate, open it,push inward. Thegate clicks behind me. The tulips along theborder areredder thanever, opening, nolonger wine cups butchalices; thrustingthemselves up,towhat end? Theyare,after all,empty. When theyareoldthey turnthemselves insideout,then explode slowly,thepetals thrown outlike shards. Nick looks upand begins towhistle. Thenhesays, "Nice walk? Heisn't supposed tospeak tome. Ofcourse some ofthem willtry,said Aunt Lydia. Allflesh isweak. Allflesh isgrass, Icorrected her in my head. Theycan'thelpit,she said, Godmade themthatway butHedid not make you that way.

Hemade youdifferent. It'suptoyou toset the boundaries. Lateryouwill be thanked. In the garden behindthehouse theCommander's Wifeissitting, inthe chair she's had brought out. Serena Joy,what astupid name. It'slike something you'dputonyour hair, in the other time,thetime before, tostraighten it. Serena Joy,itwould sayonthe bottle, with awoman's headincut- paper silhouette onapink ovalbackground withscalloped gold edges. Witheverything tochoose frominthe way ofnames, whydidshe pick that one? Serena Joywas never herreal name, noteven then. Herreal name wasPam. I read thatinaprofile onher, inanews magazine, longafter I'dfirst watched hersinging while mymother sleptinon Sunday mornings. Bythat time shewas worthy ofaprofile: Time orNewsweek itwas, itmust have been. Shewasn't singing anymore bythen, she was making speeches. Shewasgood atit.

Her speeches wereabout thesanctity ofthe home, abouthowwomen shouldstayhome. Serena Joydidn't dothis herself, shemade speeches instead,butshe presented thisfailure ofhers asasacrifice shewas making for the good ofall. Around thattime, someone triedtoshoot herand missed; hersecretary, whowas standing rightbehind her,was killed instead. Someone elseplanted abomb inher car but itwent offtoo early. Though somepeople saidshe'd putthebomb inher own car,forsympathy. That'show hot things weregetting. Luke andIwould watchhersometimes onthe late- night news. Bathrobes, nightcaps. We'd watch hersprayed hairand herhysteria, andthetears shecould stillproduce at will, and themascara blackening hercheeks.

Bythat time shewas wearing more makeup. Wethought shewas funny. OrLuke thought shewas funny. Ionly pretended to think so. Really shewas alittle frightening. She doesn't makespeeches anymore. Shehasbecome speechless. Shestays inher home, butitdoesn't seemtoagree withher. How furious shemust be,now thatshe's been taken ather word. She's looking atthe tulips. Hercane isbeside her,onthe grass. Herprofile istowards me, Ican seethat inthe quick sideways lookItake ather asIgo past. Itwouldn't doto stare. It'snolonger aflawlesss cut-paper profile, herface issinking inupon itself, andI think ofthose towns builtonunderground rivers,where houses andwhole streets disappear overnight,intosudden quagmires, orcoal towns collapsing intothemines beneath them. Something likethis must have happened toher, once shesaw thetrue shape ofthings tocome. She doesn't turnherhead. Shedoesn't acknowledge mypresence inany way, although she knows I'mthere.

Ican tellshe knows, it'slike asmell, herknowledge; something gone sour,likeoldmilk. It's not thehusbands youhave towatch outfor, said Aunt Lydia, it'sthe Wives. You should always trytoimagine whattheymust befeeling. Ofcourse theywillresent you. It is only natural. Trytofeel forthem. AuntLydia thought shewas very good atfeeling for other people. In this multi-award winning, bestselling novel, author Margaret Atwood has created a very stunning Orwellian vision of the near future. In modern times, very few authors have taken the time and effort to maintain the classic style of writing that prevailed in the 19th and 20th centuries. Written in the first person singular, we see the dystopian world of Gilead through the eyes of a single servant, and his eyes alone. The result of this process not only allows the reader to identify and empathize with the main character, but also to become aware of actions and events happening around them of which they have little or no awareness.

Equally fascinating about this style is that we are quickly taken from current events to past ones, from memories to present thoughts and then to dreams. As befits any successful novel, it takes a lot of work and concentration on the part of the reader to keep the plot flowing while being presented with these quick personal impulses. The flow of the novel itself mimics E. short period of time, by which we, as readers, can draw some conclusion from the preceding events. Reading this novel was an extreme pleasure for me, if only for the above reason. However, the dystopian worldview is just as powerful considering it was written in the s. Is such a social media possible in the future? Probably not.

Search the history of over billion web pages on the Internet. Capture a web page as it appears now for use as a trusted citation in the future. Uploaded by station cebu on October 13, Internet Archive logo A line drawing of the Internet Archive headquarters building façade. Search icon An illustration of a magnifying glass. User icon An illustration of a person's head and chest. Sign up Log in. Web icon An illustration of a computer application window Wayback Machine Texts icon An illustration of an open book. Books Video icon An illustration of two cells of a film strip.

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The handmaid's tale Item Preview. remove-circle Share or Embed This Item. EMBED for wordpress. com hosted blogs and archive. Want more? Advanced embedding details, examples, and help! Publication date Topics Theocracy -- Fiction , Misogyny -- Fiction , Dystopias -- Fiction , Pregnancy -- Social aspects -- Fiction , Man-woman relationships -- Fiction , Women -- Fiction , Women -- Fiction , Women , Dystopias , Man-woman relationships , Misogyny , Pregnancy -- Social aspects , Theocracy , Women Publisher Boston : Houghton Mifflin Collection inlibrary ; printdisabled ; internetarchivebooks ; bannedbooks ; bannedbooks Digitizing sponsor The Arcadia Fund Contributor Internet Archive Language English.

Set in the near future, it describes life in what was once the United States, 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 world, with bizarre consequences for the women and men of 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 façade, 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 tour de force. It is Margaret Atwood at her best"--Jacket Night -- Shopping -- Night -- Waiting room -- Nap -- Household -- Night -- Birth day -- Night -- Soul scrolls -- Night -- Jezebel's -- Night -- Salvaging -- Night -- Historical notes Accelerated Reader Middle Grade 9. Full catalog record MARCXML. plus-circle Add Review. There are no reviews yet. Be the first one to write a review. Internet Archive Books. Banned Books. SIMILAR ITEMS based on metadata.

We walk, sedately. The young ones are often the most dangerous, the most fanatical, the jumpiest with their guns. Shewasfumbling in her robe, forher pass, andthey thought shewas hunting forabomb. download 1 file. Infront ofone ofthem aGuardian ismowing thelawn. Thenhesays, "Nice walk? Asinanunnery too,there arefew mirrors.

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