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The Testaments by Margaret Atwood Sunday Book Circle - Part I

The Testaments is the sequel novel to The Handmaid’s Tale, both of which are about a post US society, Gilead, that has extremely stratified sex and class distinctions. In the sequel, the handmaid’s two daughters' lives collide and meet with Aunt Lydia, one of the women behind how women’s lives are run in Gilead, in an attempt to bring down the entire society.

I hate this book. I hated The Handmaid’s Tale if it wasn’t obvious from my video review of it on my YouTube channel. Honestly though I hate The Testaments even more than the first novel. It does a lot to ruin anything good about the first book. First of all, we have the three perspectives, all written or recorded after the fact, meaning there are way too many details for what we’re getting. I doubt that Nicole/Daisy/Jade remembers as much as she does about everything she experienced, but especially not Agnes/Victoria. Agnes did not learn to read and write until much later in the novel and I’ve seen first hand how illiteracy impairs a person’s memory. I just don’t see Agnes being able to remember as many conversations as she does from before she learned to read.

Also more annoying than that, the prose of all three is too similar. While their dialogue is often differentiated for their character backgrounds, the prose, which they were supposedly composing themselves, was not. One could say that the younger women composed their versions later in life which would account for their better diction, but we know that’s not true as Nicole/Daisy/Jade’s was made as soon as her arm healed as is stated in the first paragraph of her story. I believe it comes down to Atwood needing to flex her prosic chops and not being able to sacrifice it for the authenticity of her characters and mode of storytelling. I get it. She likes to write her prose, but guess what? If there isn’t blood on the cutting room floor, your story is not going to be authentic.

This novel is so “girls get it done” that its fucking annoying. Women are just so damn awesome and the only possible reasons for this is that 1) Atwood hates men. Like legitimately hates them at this point because The Handmaid’s Tale was pretty hateful, but The Testaments is a lot worse. And 2) feminists today don’t want any kind of nuance. They want badass women or the world’s most pathetic victims. That’s why we get a stone cold bitch like Lydia and the biggest sad sack of Becca. Now, I feel bad for Becca, but only because Atwood abused her character more than her fake father, Dr. Grove did. Yeah, I went there. First of all, I can go there because Becca is a fictional character. She’s also a badly written fictional character.

Becca is the most broken person ever. She is the exact opposite of Lydia which is why Lydia knew exactly what Becca was going to do. Oh, but don’t worry, Atwood made her a fictional statue to make up for her flat, virginal, perfect victim of a character. There are no sharp edges to Becca. There is no anger or steel. And before anyone says that her suicide attempt is counter to that, I don’t believe Becca’s attempt was some great stand against her situation. It was just her attempt at getting away from what she found unbearable. And by the way, I know plenty of women who were sexually abused as children who do not hate men or sex. Many of them love men and have a healthy picture of sex. They are neither prude nor sex fiends, which both happen, but also neither happens and it is kind of a cop out when it comes to fiction because both are tropes. Since all three outcomes happen but only two are ever depicted in fiction because only two are useful to a writer, I find it too easy of a route to take. I would have liked it more if the reason behind Becca’s aversion to marriage was based on the Aunts’ teachings about men and their so-called appetites, not some dark past.

But back to the “girls get it done” attitude of the book. Men help. A lot of the success of the plot doesn’t happen without men helping, but these are faceless flat men. The most fleshed out are Neil and Garth and even they are just a blip. If the sexes were reversed, I could see endless reviews about how the women in the book were minor and unimportant in a way that had to be due to misogyny. In the same way that for any woman who is a sidekick or a helpmate in any story they would freak out about how the male main characters used the female characters. It’s just annoying.

The Aunts have way more power than they did in the first novel. Frankly, too much. I had complained that it wouldn’t make sense to keep using handmaids because how was that sustainable, especially if the society did nothing in the way of fertility science, which was already a thing at the time of The Handmaid’s Tale release. The Aunts make it seem more sustainable in this novel, but then at the same time, there’s a lot to make it less sustainable, such as the constant in fighting and backstabbing, including among the Aunts. I find it hard to believe that none of the founding Aunts were ever taken out before the present in which Lydia records her story. None of them. I would think either one of the Aunts or one of the Commanders would take one of them out, even Aunt Lydia, but they’ve gone about twenty years without losing a single member of their founding group, unlike the Commanders. It’s important to note that women are on average more passive aggressive and willing to push others under buses to survive than men are, so while I find it believable that so many Commanders have risen and fallen in this time period, I find it utterly unbelievable that none of the Aunts have. Totalitarian revolutions have so much blood to them, especially after they take over, and it doesn’t stop upon “stability”. It just keeps going.

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Book Club Reminder!

Book Club for The Picture of Dorian Gray is 3.22 at 3PM MST on Alex's Book Circle on Rumble. Send me a message to be on the live stream to discuss the book!

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The King's Guardess
Chapter 19: The Prize to Be Won

Steam rose in lazy swirls from the bathwater, curling around the figure of Renault as he reclined with a cloth draped over his face. The silence of the chamber was thick, almost tangible. With a sudden movement that sent ripples across the surface, Renault yanked the cloth away, his brow knitted with distress.

"Ugh," he groaned, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. His thoughts churned like the water around him. “What is wrong with me? This was always the plan. She deserves this. She—”

Images of Gerardine cascaded through his mind unbidden: her stoic presence in his father's dimly lit bedroom, the unwavering gaze as she witnessed the old king's last breath; her commanding voice during those dusty afternoons of swordplay, "Pick. Up. Your. Sword."; the way she flung her hair back, beads of water glittering in the sun; her triumphant grin, sharp enough to cut steel, as Sir Heloise lay in the grass defeated; the memory of her bow, so full of rage, after his fist met her cheek; the fire in her eyes when she hurled juggling balls at him in a fit of pique; her laughter – that rare, uninhibited melody which seemed to come from a place deep within her.

And then, the image that made his cheeks flare hotter than the bathwater: Gerardine beneath him, her identity no longer hidden by armor or pretense, but revealed in the moonlight as undeniably, breathtakingly woman.

 

 

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The King's Guardess
Chapter 18: The First Laugh

Gerardine jumped as the council chamber doors exploded open with a bang that could wake the dead. She let loose an unladylike "Holy fuck", just as Renault barreled out. The hall, thick with the musty scent of old books and older men, instantly brightened with his grinning presence.

"Sir Gerard!" he boomed, striding across the chamber like a conqueror. Before she could react, he was upon her, his hands clasping her upper arms as if they were comrades just seeing each other for the first time in years. "We're going hunting."

"Ah, joy," Gerardine groaned, her voice dripping sarcasm as Renault's infectious excitement failed to penetrate her annoyance. Yet, when he tugged her from her post, her body complied with an uncharacteristic limpness—resistance was futile against the human whirlwind that was Renault.

"Come on, no sour faces," he chided cheerfully, reading her like an old friend, much older than they actually were. "Don't worry! No horses and horsing around this time."

"Promise?" she asked, her eyebrow arching in mock hopefulness. Renault only laughed in response, leading her away from the drudgery of duty to the promise of adventure—or at least, his version of it.

***
Deep within the forest, trees whispered secrets to each other as Renault and Gerardine treaded through the underbrush. Bow in hand, Gerardine's eyes couldn't help but wander over to Renault. Clad in his hunting leathers, he cut a dashing figure among the greens and browns of their woodland playground. He was all focus, eyes scanning, every muscle tensed for the hunt. And then there was her, trying to remember why she had agreed to this.

Catching her gaze, Renault's eyebrow quirked up. "What?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful challenge.

"Nothing," Gerardine responded too quickly, her cheeks warming just a smidge. "I'm just waiting for your next prank, sire."

Renault's smile bloomed like a rose in summer. Eyes closed, head raised to the heavens as if in silent thanks, he proclaimed, "I'm giving you a reprieve for the day."

"Generous," Gerardine deadpanned, offering him a blank-faced stare that should have been enough to wilt flowers. "How kind of you, your majesty."

His laughter echoed through the forest, birds taking flight from their sanctuary in the trees. There was something unsettlingly charming about Renault in these moments—unburdened by the weight of his crown, free in a way that made Gerardine's heart perform strange little flips. But she'd never admit to that, not even under pain of torture.

"Oh, am I getting to you?" Renault's voice was a tease, his grin wide as he leaned in, close enough that Gerardine could count every speck of mischief in his eyes.

"Perhaps my nerves," she retorted, arching an eyebrow in mock defiance, "but not my funny bone."

 

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The King's Guardess
Chapter 17: Take a Break!

Renault sat at the head of the long, oak council table, a mischievous glint in his eye as he manipulated a peculiar bag with his fingers. With a squeeze, it erupted into a scandalous sound that echoed off the stone walls, and he couldn't suppress the grin that spread across his face. The gathered councilors, however, were far from amused, their brows knitted together in collective annoyance.

"What?" Renault asked innocently, looking around at the sea of scowling faces.

"Sire, could you please focus?" implored the councilor with glasses perched precariously on his nose. His tone held the same weariness one might reserve for a child who had asked 'why' too many times.

But Renault, undeterred by the plea for seriousness, refilled the rubbery pouch with another gust of breath and pressed it once more, releasing yet another flatulent symphony into the solemn chamber. "Is this funny?" he queried with the enthusiasm of a bard presenting his finest ballad.

The councilor with the impressive beard, whose face was lost somewhere within the thicket of hair, leaned forward. "What is that?" he grumbled, voice deep and resonating like an old war drum.

With a flourish fit for a jester, Renault waved the strange object through the air. "It's a sheep’s stomach treated with wax," he explained, as if unveiling a grand invention.

The oldest councilor, wrinkles mapping out the trials of countless tedious meetings, sighed deeply. "What do you plan to do with it?" he asked, dread seeping into his voice.

Renault's smile broadened, eyes twinkling with the promise of mischief. "I’m going to fill it with air and then put it on Sir Gerard’s seat at dinner. It will make it sound like he farted."

As if on cue, the councilors released a chorus of groans, a sound Renault was becoming all too familiar with. He scanned their faces, puzzled. "What?"

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