In the first week of rereading, I mentioned that what I remembered of my first reading was that it was fast and seemingly steady; I had forgotten all the different types of narratives (the newspaper articles and the excerpts from Laura’s novel) and remembered only Iris.

One reason for this is evident in the final five chapters—which are short compared to the rest of the novel, the scenes swift and compelling—as well as in the resolution. Atwood seems to present answers to every imaginable question, and it feels tremendously satisfying to have it all laid out.

This sense of security and rootedness and solidity is what remained with me. It felt almost delicious to have the threads weave together, that sense of surprise and inevitability that I enjoy.

But the very next day, when I sat down to make my notes, I realised (once more) that I didn’t know what I thought I knew.

I was reminded of Aimee coming to Iris: “Most of all she was tired of the feeling that things were being hidden from her. The family had covered it up; no one would tell her the truth; our mouths opened and closed and words came out, but they were not words that led to anything.”

When Aimee learns the truth, and Iris learns of her discovery, we feel the emotional resonance of both the secrecy and the revelation.

It’s almost an afterthought, to understand that the truth that Aimee has discovered is… actually not the truth. At least, not as it has been revealed to us.

I was reminded of this observation, which emerges after we come to know more about the storyteller who writes more about lizard-people than humans: “None of this happens, of course. Or it does happen, but not so you would notice. It happens in another dimension of space.” After it emerges that there are elements of real-life cloaked in tropes from B-movies and issues of Weird Tales.

Reminded of the discussion of motivation, the question of why one looks to diaries and letters and histories to unearth the truth. “Curiosity is not our only motive: love or grief or despair or hatred is what drives us on.”

Reminded that this is, still, Iris’s story: “I thought of myself as recording. A bodiless hand, scrawling across a wall.
I wanted a memorial. That was how it began.” That we could ascribe to her every single one of those motives. (That hand links back to another photograph at the beginning of the novel but, also, every curated object—photograph or narrative, is held by someone’s hand.)

We feel secure and informed at the end, but do we know anything more or anything different than Aimee knew?

She was convinced. We are convinced. It’s such a good story.

Questionssss for anyone reading along:
Who is the titular blind assassin, and what do the Xs in the school notebooks signify, and what happened to Alex, and what did Reenie really think, and do you believe Iris?

Question for anyone:
There’s a lovely passage about secrets here, which begins “I wonder which is preferable—to walk around all your life swollen up with your own secrets until you burst from the pressure of them, or to have them sucked out of you, every paragraph, every sentence, every word….” What book about a secret have you recently read or loved a lot?

NOTE: Just a reminder that there are spoilers, in the comments below, about The Blind Assassin

MARM Quote-of-the-Week

Margaret Atwood

Q “Is your hair really like that, or do you get it done?”
A “If I got it done, would I do this?”
|Memories from 1972 book tour, recounted in Book of Lives (2025)|