Too prone to enchantment
I haven’t seen snow for at least three years now and I don’t know when I’m going to see it again. Before I moved to London, I would see snow in regular intervals - as part four of the comforting routine of seasons.
Now, however, I live in the land of perpetual autumn. There is no way of telling whether we are in January or June. Maybe this dullness of the English weather and landscape makes me look for more interesting phenomena in literature. It might be a cheap trick to set up the atmosphere in your novel using the weather, but, gosh, it works. Give me a dark and stormy night and I’m hooked. Give me sweltering heat, or icy rain. Give me hail, give me a monsoon and I’m yours.
This is how Margaret Atwood opens the first of her Nine Tales in Stone Mattress:
“The freezing rain sifts down, handfuls of shining rice thrown by some unseen celebrant. Wherever it hits, it crystallizes into a granulated coating of ice. Under the street lights it looks so beautiful: like fairy silver, thinks Constance. But then, she would think that; she’s far too prone to enchantment.”
And so am I. Especially when it comes to snow, Canada and Margaret Atwood.
These stories are dark and delightful, like a slightly ominous laughter of a witch who is not evil, just mischievous. Atwood is an amazingly versatile writer who can do funny and atmospheric at the same time.
It’s hard not to notice that this collection is mostly about growing old and maintaining your dignity. And on that subject I’d like to say that I want to age like Margaret Atwood. That’s how imagine my retirement and thus I don’t fear it at all.
It wouldn’t be Atwood’s work if it didn’t also take jabs at pretentious sexists snobs, while elevating ‘genre’ writing. The first two stories concern and old poet who once dated a woman who went on to become an author of a very successful fantasy series, while he fell into obscurity of interest mostly to academics researching biographical minutiae of the fantasy writer. It is satisfying to read about the guy who disdained women, disdained genre writers and now he is just a footnote in a life of a female fantasy writer.
Another one of my favourite tales from this book takes place on an Arctic cruise (ah, what a wonderful setting, so much potential for weather-induced atmosphere). The story starts with:
“At the outset, Verna had not intended to kill anyone.”
But if you are on an Arctic cruise and meet the guy who raped you in high school, he is sort of asking for it, right?
I only have good things to say about the contents of this book, however not about the cover. What in the name of all that’s holy is that? I mean, I love yellow as much as the next person but they LITERALLY just piled all the tropes from the stories on top of each other.
