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Summary
Summary
Margaret Atwood puts the human heart to the ultimate test in an utterly brilliant new novel that is as visionary as The Handmaid's Tale and as richly imagined as The Blind Assassin .
Stan and Charmaine are a married couple trying to stay afloat in the midst of an economic and social collapse. Job loss has forced them to live in their car, leaving them vulnerable to roving gangs. They desperately need to turn their situation around--and fast. The Positron Project in the town of Consilience seems to be the answer to their prayers. No one is unemployed and everyone gets a comfortable, clean house to live in . . . for six months out of the year. On alternating months, residents of Consilience must leave their homes and function as inmates in the Positron prison system. Once their month of service in the prison is completed, they can return to their "civilian" homes.
At first, this doesn't seem like too much of a sacrifice to make in order to have a roof over one's head and food to eat. But when Charmaine becomes romantically involved with the man who lives in their house during the months when she and Stan are in the prison, a series of troubling events unfolds, putting Stan's life in danger. With each passing day, Positron looks less like a prayer answered and more like a chilling prophecy fulfilled.
Author Notes
Margaret Atwood was born on November 18, 1939 in Ottawa, Canada. She received a B.A. from Victoria College, University of Toronto in 1961 and an M.A. from Radcliff College in 1962.
Her first book of verse, Double Persephone, was published in 1961 and was awarded the E. J. Pratt Medal. She has published numerous books of poetry, novels, story collections, critical work, juvenile work, and radio and teleplays. Her works include The Journals of Susanna Moodie, Power Politics, Cat's Eye, The Robber Bride, Morning in the Buried House, the MaddAdam trilogy, and The Heart Goes Last. She has won numerous awards including the Prince of Asturias Award for Literature, the Booker Prize in 2000 for The Blind Assassin, the Giller Prize and the Premio Mondello for Alias Grace, and the Governor General's Award in 1966 for The Circle Game and in 1986 for The Handmaid's Tale, which also won the very first Arthur C. Clarke Award in 1987. She won the PEN Pinter prize in 2016 for her political activism. She was awarded the 2016 PEN Pinter Prize for the outstanding literary merit of her body of work.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
New York Review of Books Review
THE HEART GOES LAST, by Margaret Atwood. (Nan A. Talese/Doubleday, $26.95.) Captivating "speculative fiction" about a town whose residents serve as prisoners explores both economic oppression and the conflict between love and independence. NEVER ENOUGH: Donald Trump and the Pursuit of Success, by Michael D'Antonio. (Thomas Dunne/St. Martin's, $26.99.) Psychological, technological and social trends lend a thoughtful context for Trump. THIS IS YOUR LIFE, HARRIET CHANCE!, by Jonathan Evison. (Algonquin, $25.95.) This intricately structured novel reveals dark secrets behind an apparently sedate existence. BLACK SILENT MAJORITY: The Rockefeller Drug Laws and the Politics of Punishment, by Michael Javen Fortner. (Harvard University, $29.95.) A professor offers a fascinating argument about the African-American roots of the war on drugs. UNFINISHED BUSINESS: Women Men Work Family, by Anne-Marie Slaughter. (Random House, $28.) Public policy changes to enable working parents to meet responsibilities are usefully examined. THE VISITING PRIVILEGE: New and Collected Stories, by Joy Williams. (Knopf, $30.) These tales, spanning nearly 50 years, are marked by queasy humor and a wry nihilism. THE INVENTION OF NATURE: Alexander von Humboldt's New World, by Andrea Wulf. (Knopf, $30.) The German scientist's monumental journey in the Americas; a readable account. ONCE IN A GREAT CITY: A Detroit Story, by David Maraniss. (Simon & Schuster, $32.50.) A bighearted study of 1963, the turning point in the city's decline. THE PRIZE, by Jill Bialosky. (Counterpoint, $25.) This graceful novel balances the transcendence of art against the slog of everyday life. The full reviews of these and other recent books are on the web: nytimes.com/books.
Guardian Review
What the critics thought of: Morrissey's List of the Lost, James Shapiro's 1606 and Margaret Atwood's The Heart Goes Last Now and again there is a critical drubbing so comprehensive that it almost literally makes your eyes water. Such was the fate of List of the Lost, the debut novel by Morrissey. "Could this be the most toe-curlingly terrible book ever?" ran the headline of a piece by Quentin Letts of the Daily Mail, who didn't hold back on his own colourful prose: "Morrissey's writing is Adrian Mole on magic mushrooms, verbal diarrhoea being squirted at you through an industrial hose." The paper then gleefully reproduced a selection of the book's sex scenes, which have been widely tipped for the Literary Review's bad sex award ("Eliza's breasts barrel-rolled across Ezra's howling mouth and the pained frenzy of his bulbous salutation"). "Terrible ... monstrously overwritten," wrote Charlotte Runcie in the Daily Telegraph, and for the NME's Jordan Bassett, "it feels like you're swallowing concrete as you slog through the book's huge paragraphs." Only Melissa Katsoulis in the Times sounded a more forgiving note. "What did the reviewers expect? An elegant disquisition on the pitfalls of modern marriage? A tragicomic look at what can go wrong when you move to the country? ... unreadable at times, but inimitable and irreplaceable. Long may he joyously jiggle his art in our faces, whether we like it or not." At the other end of the spectrum 1606: William Shakespeare and the Year of Lear by James Shapiro proved to be critical catnip, with its themes of the playwright, the plague and the Gunpowder Plot. A "dark, enthralling, and brilliant narrative", wrote Robert McCrum in the Observer, and the Spectator's Sam Leith found it a "terrifically interesting book". In the Independent, Lucasta Miller praised the "exhaustive yet exhilarating depth" of the narrative. "Shapiro does not have quite the cool intellectual elegance found in fellow New Historicist Stephen Greenblatt 's Hamlet in Purgatory. What he has instead is a vigorous, burning appetite for historical information and an equally burning desire to impart it." But Kate Maltby of the Times pointed out one rather inconvenient fact: King Lear wasn't, in fact, written in 1606 at all. "As Shapiro acknowledges ... Shakespeare had completed Lear before the Gunpowder Plot of November 1605, and 1606 was instead dominated by Macbeth and Antony and Cleopatra. Perish the thought, that 'Year of Lear' simply rhymes better than 'Year of Macbeth'." Fortunately, this did little to diminish her enjoyment of the book: " 1606 remains a work of rich detail." It was a mixed bag for Margaret Atwood's latest novel, The Heart Goes Last, an adventure/love story set in the author's customary dystopian future. Doug Johnstone of the Independent on Sunday found that "as the plot progresses it becomes increasingly more slapstick, and Atwood herself seems to stop taking things seriously". For the Daily Telegraph's Anthony Cummins, the book "sometimes feels spun out... Overall it's a strange fish: a sex comedy crossed with a stern satire on predatory big business in the shape of a knockabout action romp." Only Christina Patterson of the Sunday Times was unequivocal. "It is, as always, brilliantly done," she wrote, "as gripping as it is chilling. It is also extremely funny ... Margaret Atwood has a brain the size of a (dystopian) planet. And her prose sings."
Library Journal Review
Newlyweds Stan and Charmaine were passed over by the American dream. An economic collapse (an extreme fictionalization of the 2008 financial crisis) made jobs scarce and plunged once pleasant suburban communities into squalor. After losing their home, Stan and Charmaine are living in their car and fighting off looters. The couple are so desperate for a better life that they join the experimental community of Consilience, despite it being painfully obvious that Consilience is too good to be true. After a promising beginning, Atwood's narrative soon shows the strain of being an expanded compilation of five previously published serial novellas. Listeners will be surprised to find that what first appears to be speculative fiction in the vein of Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale devolves into a campy sexual farce complete with sadomasochism and men lusting after chickens. Unfortunately, the characters aren't fascinating enough to sustain the sharp left turn, especially for the 12 hours of this audiobook's run time. Mark Deakins and Cassandra Campbell narrate Stan's and Charmaine's alternating chapters effectively. -VERDICT -Atwood's popularity is likely to lead to high demand in public libraries. Fans of the author's "MaddAddam" trilogy may enjoy.-Julie Judkins, Univ. of North Texas, Denton © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
CRAMPED Sleeping in the car is cramped. Being a third-hand Honda, it's no palace to begin with. If it was a van they'd have more room, but fat chance of affording one of those, even back when they thought they had money. Stan says they're lucky to have any kind of a car at all, which is true, but their luckiness doesn't make the car any bigger. Charmaine feels that Stan ought to sleep in the back because he needs more space--it would only be fair, he's larger--but he has to be in the front in order to drive them away fast in an emergency. He doesn't trust Charmaine's ability to function under those circumstances: he says she'd be too busy screaming to drive. So Charmaine can have the more spacious back, though even so she has to curl up like a snail because she can't exactly stretch out. They keep the windows mostly closed because of the mosquitoes and the gangs and the solitary vandals. The solitaries don't usually have guns or knives--if they have those kinds of weapons you have to get out of there triple fast--but they're more likely to be bat-shit crazy, and a crazy person with a piece of metal or a rock or even a high-heeled shoe can do a lot of damage. They'll think you're a demon or the undead or a vampire whore, and no kind of reasonable thing you might do to calm them down will cancel out that opinion. The best thing with crazy people, Grandma Win used to say--the only thing, really--is to be somewhere else. With the windows shut except for a crack at the top, the air gets dead and supersaturated with their own smells. There aren't many places where they can grab a shower or wash their clothes, and that makes Stan irritable. It makes Charmaine irritable too, but she tries her best to stamp on that feeling and look on the bright side, because what's the use of complaining? What's the use of anything? she often thinks. But what's the use of even thinking What's the use? So instead she says, "Honey, let's just cheer up!" "Why?" Stan might say. "Give me one good fucking reason to cheer the fuck up." Or he might say, "Honey, just shut it!" mimicking her light, positive tone, which is mean of him. He can lean to the mean when he's irritated, but he's a good man underneath. Most people are good underneath if they have a chance to show their goodness: Charmaine is determined to keep on believing that. A shower is a help for the showing of the goodness in a person, because, as Grandma Win was in the habit of saying, Cleanliness is next to godliness and godliness means goodliness. That was among the other things she might say, such as Your mother didn't kill herself, that was just talk. Your daddy did the best he could but he had a lot to put up with and it got too much. You should try hard to forget those other things, because a man's not accountable when he's had too much to drink. And then she would say, Let's make popcorn! And they would make the popcorn, and Grandma Win would say, Don't look out the window, sugar pie, you don't want to see what they're doing out there. It isn't nice. They yell because they want to. It's self-expression. Sit here by me. It all worked out for the best, because look, here you are and we're happy and safe now! That didn't last, though. The happiness. The safeness. The now. WHERE? Stan twists in the front seat, trying to get comfortable. Not much fucking chance of that. So what can he do? Where can they turn? There's no safe place, there are no instructions. It's like he's being blown by a vicious but mindless wind, aimlessly round and round in circles. No way out. He feels so lonely, and sometimes having Charmaine with him makes him feel lonelier. He's let her down. He has a brother, true, but that would be a last resort. He and Conor had followed different paths, was the polite way of saying it. A drunken midnight fight, with dickheads and douchebags and shit-for-brains freely exchanged, would be the impolite way of saying it, and it was in fact the way Conor had chosen during their last encounter. To be accurate, Stan had chosen that way too, though he'd never had as foul a mouth as Con. In Stan's view--his view at that time--Conor was next door to a criminal. But in Con's view Stan was a dupe of the system, an ass-kisser, a farce, and a coward. Balls of a tadpole. Where's slippery Conor now, what's he doing? At least he won't have lost his job in the big financial-crash business-wrecking meltdown that turned this part of the country into a rust bucket: you can't lose your job if you don't have one. Unlike Stan, he hasn't been expelled, cast out, condemned to a life of frantic, grit-in-the-eyes, rancid-armpit wandering. Con always lived off what he could mooch or filch from others, ever since he was a kid. Stan hasn't forgotten his Swiss Army knife that he'd saved up for, his Transformer, his Nerf gun with the foam bullets: magical disappearances all, with Con's younger-brother head going shake shake shake from side to side, no way, who, me? Stan wakes at night thinking for a moment that he's home in bed, or at least in a bed of some sort. He reaches for Charmaine, but she isn't there beside him and he finds himself inside the stinking car, needing a piss but afraid to unlock the door because of the voices yammering toward him and the footsteps crunching on gravel or thudding on asphalt, and maybe a fist thumping on the roof and a scarred, partly toothed face grinning in the window: Lookit what we got! Cockfodder! Let's open 'er up! Gimme the crowbar! And then Charmaine's terrified little whisper: "Stan! Stan! We need to go! We need to go right now!" As if he couldn't figure that out for himself. He keeps the key in the ignition, always. Rev of motor, screech of tires, yelling and jeering, pounding of heart, and then what? More of the same in some other parking lot or sidestreet, somewhere else. It would be nice if he had a machine gun: nothing any smaller would even come close. As it is, his only weapon is flight. He feels pursued by bad luck, as if bad luck is a feral dog, lurking along behind him, following his scent, lying in wait around corners. Peering out from under bushes to fix him with its evil yellow eye. Maybe what he needs is a witch doctor, some serious voodoo. Plus a couple of hundred bucks so they could spend a night in a motel, with Charmaine beside him instead of out of reach in the back seat. That would be the bare minimum: to wish for any more would be pushing it. Charmaine's commiseration makes it worse. She tries so hard. "You are not a failure," she says. "Just because we lost the house and we're sleeping in the car, and you got . . ." She doesn't want to say fired. "And you haven't given up, at least you're looking for a job. Those things like losing the house, and, and . . . those things have happened to a lot of people. To most people." "But not to everyone," Stan would say. "Not to fucking everyone." Not to rich people. --- They'd started out so well. They both had jobs then. Charmaine was in the Ruby Slippers Retirement Homes and Clinics chain, doing entertainment and events--she had a special touch with the elderly, said the supervisors--and she was working her way up. He was doing well too: junior quality control at Dimple Robotics, testing the Empathy Module in the automated Customer Fulfillment models. People didn't just want their groceries bagged, he used to explain to Charmaine: they wanted a total shopping experience, and that included a smile. Smiles were hard; they could turn into grimaces or leers, but if you got a smile right, they'd spend extra for it. Amazing to remember, now, what people would once spend extra for. They'd had a small wedding--just friends, since there wasn't much family left on either side, their parents being dead one way or another. Charmaine said she wouldn't have invited hers anyway, though she didn't elaborate because she didn't like to talk about them, but she wished her Grandma Win could have been there. Who knew where Conor was? Stan didn't look for him, because if he turned up he would probably have tried to grope Charmaine or do some other attention-grabbing stunt. Then they had a beach honeymoon in Georgia. That was a high point. There are the two of them in the photos, golden and smiling, sunlight all over them like mist, raising their glasses of--what had that been, some tropical cocktail heavy on the lime cordial--raising their glasses to their new life. Charmaine in a retro flower-patterned halter top with a sarong skirt and a hibiscus blossom tucked behind her ear, her blond hair shining, ruffled by the breeze, him in a green shirt with penguins on it that Charmaine had picked out for him, and a panama; well, not a real panama, but that idea. They look so young, so untouched. So eager for the future. Stan sent one of those photos to Conor to show that there was, finally, a girl of Stan's that Con couldn't poach; also as an example of the success Con himself might expect to have if he'd settle down, go straight, stop doing minor time, quit fooling around on the fringes. It's not that Con wasn't smart: he was too smart. Always playing the angles. Con sent a message back: Nice T&A, big brother. Can she cook? Dumb penguins though. Typical: Con had to sneer, he had to disparage. That was before he'd cut the lines, dumped his email, refused to share his address. --- Back up north, they'd made a down payment on a house, a starter two-bedroom in need of a little love but with room for the growing family, said the agent with a wink. It seemed affordable, but in retrospect the decision to buy was a mistake--there were the renovations and repairs, and that meant extra debt on top of the mortgage. They told themselves they could handle it: they weren't big spenders, they worked hard. That's the killer: the hard work. He'd busted his ass. He might as well not have bothered, in view of the fuck-all he's been left with. It makes him cross-eyed to remember how hard he'd worked. Then everything went to ratshit. Overnight, it felt like. Not just in his own personal life: the whole card castle, the whole system fell to pieces, trillions of dollars wiped off the balance sheets like fog off a window. There were hordes of two-bit experts on TV pretending to explain why it had happened--demographics, loss of confidence, gigantic Ponzi schemes--but that was all guesswork bullshit. Someone had lied, someone had cheated, someone had shorted the market, someone had inflated the currency. Not enough jobs, too many people. Or not enough jobs for middle-of-the-road people like Stan and Charmaine. The northeast, which was where they were, was the hardest hit. The Ruby Slippers branch where Charmaine worked ran into trouble: it was upscale, so a lot of families could no longer afford to park their old folks in there. Rooms emptied, overheads were cut. Charmaine applied for a transfer--the chain was still doing well on the West Coast--but that didn't happen, and she was made redundant. Then Dimple Robotics packed up and moved west, and Stan was out without a parachute. They sat in their newly bought home on their newly bought sofa with the flowered throw pillows that Charmaine had taken such trouble to match, and hugged each other, and said they loved each other, and Charmaine cried, and Stan patted her and felt useless. Charmaine got a temporary job waiting tables; when that place went belly up, she got another one. Then another, in a bar. Not high-end places; those were drying up, because anyone who could afford to eat fancy food was gobbling it farther west, or else in exotic countries where the concept of minimum wage had never existed. No such luck for Stan, with the odd jobs: overqualified, was what they told him at the employment office. He said he wasn't picky--he'd clean floors, he'd mow lawns--and they smirked (what floors? what lawns?), and said they'd keep him on file. But then the employment office itself closed down, because why keep it open if there was no employment? --- They held on in their little house, living on fast food and the money from selling the furniture, skimping on energy use and sitting in the dark, hoping things would take an upturn. Finally they put the house on the market, but by then there were no buyers; the houses on either side of theirs were already empty, and the looters had been through them, ripping out anything that could be sold. One day they had no mortgage money left, and their credit cards were frozen. They walked out before they were thrown out, and drove away before the creditors could grab their car. Luckily Charmaine had saved up a little stash of cash. That, and her tiny pay packet at the bar, plus tips--those have kept them in gas, and a post-office box so they can pretend to have an address if anything does come up for Stan, and the odd trip to the laundromat when they can't stand the griminess of their clothes. Stan has sold his blood twice, though he didn't get much for it. "You wouldn't believe it," the woman said to him as she handed him a paper cup of fake juice after his second blood drain, "but some people have asked us if we want to buy their babies' blood, can you imagine?" "No shit," says Stan. "Why? Babies don't have that much blood." More valuable, was her answer. She said there was a news item that claimed a total blood renewal, young blood for old, staves off dementia and rolls your physical clock back twenty, thirty years. "It's only been tried with mice," she said. "Mice aren't people! But some folks will clutch at anything. We've turned away at least a dozen baby-blood offers. We tell them we can't accept it." Someone's accepting it, Stan thought. You can bet they are. If there's money in it. --- If only the two of them could find some place where the prospects are better. There's said to be a boom in Oregon--fuelled by a rare earth discovery, China's buying a lot of that--but how can they get out there? They'd no longer have Charmaine's trickle of money coming in, they'd run out of gas. They could ditch the car, try hitching, but Charmaine is terrified by the thought. Their car is the only barrier between them and gang rape, and not just for her, she says, considering what's out there roaming around in the night with no pants on. She has a point. What should he do to pull them out of this ditch? Whatever he has to. There used to be a lot of jobs licking ass in the corporate world, but those asses are now out of reach. Banking's left the region, manufacturing too; the digital genius outfits have migrated to fatter pastures in other, more prosperous locations and nations. Service industries used to be held out as a promise of salvation, but those jobs too are scarce, at least around here. One of Stan's uncles, dead now, had been a chef, back when cheffing was a good gig because the top slice was still living onshore and high-end restaurants were glamorous. But not today, when those kinds of customers are floating around on tax-free sea platforms just outside the offshore limit. People that rich take their own chefs with them. --- Another midnight, another parking lot. It's the third one tonight; they've had to flee the previous two. Now they're so on edge they can't get back to sleep. "Maybe we should try the slots," says Charmaine. They'd done that once, and come out ten dollars to the good. It wasn't much, but at least they hadn't lost it all. "No way," says Stan. "We can't afford the risk, we need the money for gas." "Have some gum, honey," says Charmaine. "Relax a little. Go to sleep. Your brain's too active." "What fucking brain?" says Stan. There's a hurt silence: he shouldn't take it out on her. Dickhead, he tells himself. None of this is her fault. Tomorrow he'll eat his pride. He'll hunt down Conor, help him out with whatever scam he's engaged in, join the criminal underclass. He has an idea about where to start looking. Or maybe he'll just hit Con up for a loan, supposing Con is flush. That shoe used to be on the other foot - it was Conor who'd done the hitting up when they were younger, and before Conor had figured out how to game the system - but he'll need to avoid reminding Conor of their former positions now. Or maybe he should remind him. Con owes him. He could say Payback time or something. Not that he's got any leverage. But still, Con's his brother. And he is Con's brother. Which must be worth something. Excerpted from The Heart Goes Last by Margaret Atwood All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.