“It’s November; it’s almost bedtime”—in autumn 1919, when older Iris remembers reading her ABCs as a child, and determines that she’s never been the kind of person who could drive off a bridge.

Neither she nor her mother was that sort, but her father could have and, it seems her sister, Laura, did. Which is how the novel opens, with the car plummeting into the ravine below. With Laura’s death: “which everyone in this town believes—despite the verdict at the inquest—was so close to suicide as damn is to swearing.”

It’s a memorable opening: first Iris describing it, a 1945 newspaper article reporting it, and the preface from Laura’s 1947 novel titled The Blind Assassin (with a hand scissored at the wrist in a photograph, silently alluding to Laura’s hand placement on the steering wheel).

Straight away readers understand—this is not a linear account, but a scrapbook of narratives: assembly required.

I remember buying this book, on the day it was published —a rare hardcover purchase—and starting to read right away at home. No hesitation, and done in two days. But in rereading, I let out a big sigh after Part I: was I too tired to follow the thread through this maze?

I’d remembered it being all about Iris and, soon enough, that’s how it felt again. Iris reminds me of Nell in the linked stories from Moral Disorder and Old Babes in the Woods: both women chronicle ageing, from their increasingly orthopaedic shoes to their ever-thinning hairstyles, with sharp tongues and quick wits. The fragmented narrative is also a way of reminding readers that we are peering through memories: vivid but scattered.

MARM 2025 PLANS

Launch (November 1)
Old Babes in the Wood, “Death by Clamshell” (November 4)
The Blind Assassin Parts I-IV (November 6)
Week Two: Update and Check-In (November 8)
Old Babes in the Wood, “Freeforall” (November 11)
The Blind Assassin Parts V-VI (November 13)
Week Three: Update and Check-In (November 15)
Margaret Atwood’s 86th Birthday (November 18)
Old Babes in the Wood, “Metepsychosis” (November 18)
The Blind Assassin Parts VII-IX (November 20)
Week Four: Update and Check-In (November 22)
Old Babes in the Wood, “Airborne: A Symposium” (November 25)
The Blind Assassin Parts X-XV (November 27)
Wrap-Up (November 30)

We also wonder, how much of the narrative is the storyteller’s truth—how might other perspectives differ? We see in memory, for instance, bits of leftover dough shaped into men, that Reenie gave to young Laura who saved them in her dresser drawer “like tiny bun-faced mummies”. (The mummies in the museum, in Life before Man, also rush back to my mind.) And in Laura’s novel, this memory is transformed, so that her imagined children are given “small gods of sweetened bread” for certain celebrations.

There isn’t much of Laura’s novel yet, but we wonder: if the bread-people are real, what else is real. But also, what does it matter, what is real?

Question for anyone reading along:

“For failing to be what was expected. How could there not be grudges? Grudges held silently and unjustly, because there was nobody to blame, or nobody you could put your finger on.”

Do you hold a grudge as a reader, when the narrative isn’t chronological and linear, or do you enjoy the challenge; does having Iris for company help or hinder?

Question for anyone:

Reenie describes the fancy teas that followed Iris and Laura’s parents’ engagement: “with rolled asparagus sandwiches…and three kinds of cake—a light, a dark, and a fruit—and the tea itself in silver services, with roses on the table, white or pink or perhaps a pale yellow, but not red.”

Which cake would be on your plate? And which roses on your table?

Have you read, are you reading, would you read? I’ve kept my post spoiler-free, but feel free to mark your comment with a spoiler to reveal details if you wish!

MARM Quote-of-the-Week

Margaret Atwood

Here’s a piece of literature by me, suitable for seventeen-year-olds in Alberta schools, unlike — we are told — The Handmaid’s Tale. (Sorry, kids; your Minister of Education thinks you are stupid babies.)”  August 31, 2025