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3.66 AVERAGE
3.66 AVERAGE
This started out with an interesting premise but there were just too many ideas and themes left unexplored. Unfortunately, by the middle of the book, I had lost any real interest in Cedar and only slightly more interest in the plight of her baby. I found the supporting characters like Sera and Tia much more engaging as a reader. This did not come off as a cohesive, well plotted novel. Glad it's over!
Completely terrifying. Completely captivating.
I love Louise Erdrich's storytelling and this was one I couldn't wait to pick up, but also didn't want to end.
If you want a book with a neatly wrapped up ending, skip this one. Otherwise, read it for Erdrich's way with words, how they weave around each other creating something unknown, uncertain. If I had to call this book anything, I think I'd call it an exploration into possibilities of the future, a question of fate. Maybe a bit of fever-tripping Handmaid's Tale. As odd as it was, I liked it.
This is a rare book that left me feeling ambiguous and moved and indignant and worried, with so many thoughts but no conclusion, and the most baffled feeling of "what does it MEAN!!!?" So much I'm uncertain about, but I'm certain I loved it.
The apocalypse novel follows Cedar Songmaker, or Mary Potts, an Ojibwe woman raised by white parents who carries a child to term even as human fertility devolves around her. Amidst the chaos, Louise Erdrich's humor and razor sharp wit are ever present. Erdrich explores the slow-burning terror of living in a surveillance state, the variances of Indigenous identity in a white world, the intricacies of parental and familial love, the depths of friendship. She explores these themes freely and with humor and sadness, and doesn't confine herself to a satisfying plot structure. I see Orwellian echoes in here, but it is an apocalypse novel fully Erdrich's own. It sits quietly yet sharply in the persistent complexities of identity and relationship while drawing out the ironies of an apocalyptic world juxtaposed with characters who still reel from their own community's apocalypse centuries before.
My favorite character, Eddy, exemplifies this juxtaposition in the way he leads his community through their changing times. When we first meet him, he is a deeply depressed aspiring writer, filling his time off from running the gas pump with solitary, perpetual attempts to justify living another day. When we meet him again, this time after the collapse of society as we knew it, Eddy is a changed man. He stands taller, has grown his hair, has taken up drumming and singing to spite the surveillance. He becomes a leader to his people as they take back their original treaty lands from settlers who flee to the cities. A certain internet quote comes to mind: "Being well-adjusted in an exploitative, racist, capitalist society is not something we should necessarily strive towards"—or something thereabouts said by someone on the internet because we know how quoting works here, but the sentiment is there. It was all Eddy could do to justify his own life before, but when the white settlers' world flips on its head, so too do our characters' states of being, their status, their relationships within it. Eddy has decolonized his joy.
This book dwells deeply on the nature of being, the miracle of birth, the poison of capitalist and settler mindsets, the interplays of original and adopted religions, the mythology and history of place, the meanings of belonging and community and home. There are so many essays that could be written of this book, which if you ask me is one of the most exciting literary pockets to be in. There is even a contribution in here to conversations being had in aro-ace spaces about the prioritization of romantic relationships over platonic ones, no matter how deep the latter can run.
I could write those essays for days, but I will leave off with a quote: "My senses fully awakened. Awful and superb!"
The apocalypse novel follows Cedar Songmaker, or Mary Potts, an Ojibwe woman raised by white parents who carries a child to term even as human fertility devolves around her. Amidst the chaos, Louise Erdrich's humor and razor sharp wit are ever present. Erdrich explores the slow-burning terror of living in a surveillance state, the variances of Indigenous identity in a white world, the intricacies of parental and familial love, the depths of friendship. She explores these themes freely and with humor and sadness, and doesn't confine herself to a satisfying plot structure. I see Orwellian echoes in here, but it is an apocalypse novel fully Erdrich's own. It sits quietly yet sharply in the persistent complexities of identity and relationship while drawing out the ironies of an apocalyptic world juxtaposed with characters who still reel from their own community's apocalypse centuries before.
My favorite character, Eddy, exemplifies this juxtaposition in the way he leads his community through their changing times. When we first meet him, he is a deeply depressed aspiring writer, filling his time off from running the gas pump with solitary, perpetual attempts to justify living another day. When we meet him again, this time after the collapse of society as we knew it, Eddy is a changed man. He stands taller, has grown his hair, has taken up drumming and singing to spite the surveillance. He becomes a leader to his people as they take back their original treaty lands from settlers who flee to the cities. A certain internet quote comes to mind: "Being well-adjusted in an exploitative, racist, capitalist society is not something we should necessarily strive towards"—or something thereabouts said by someone on the internet because we know how quoting works here, but the sentiment is there. It was all Eddy could do to justify his own life before, but when the white settlers' world flips on its head, so too do our characters' states of being, their status, their relationships within it. Eddy has decolonized his joy.
This book dwells deeply on the nature of being, the miracle of birth, the poison of capitalist and settler mindsets, the interplays of original and adopted religions, the mythology and history of place, the meanings of belonging and community and home. There are so many essays that could be written of this book, which if you ask me is one of the most exciting literary pockets to be in. There is even a contribution in here to conversations being had in aro-ace spaces about the prioritization of romantic relationships over platonic ones, no matter how deep the latter can run.
I could write those essays for days, but I will leave off with a quote: "My senses fully awakened. Awful and superb!"
“Perhaps this piece of evolution makes no sense—our hunger for everyday sorts of visual pleasure—but I don’t think so. I think we have survived because we love beauty and because we find each other beautiful. I think it may be our strongest quality.”
This is my third time reading this book and I keep trying to figure out what draws me back to it. It’s almost a comfort read at this point but that feels oxymoronic, like someone finding comfort in true crime or The Handmaid’s Tale. But I think what’s so comforting about it is how calmly and quietly the end comes about. It’s not with a bang or a huge cataclysmic event. It’s like the whole “time moves forward because of the universe expanding and whatever expands, must contract” thing. All life on Earth just retracts and undoes itself, like manually rewinding a cassette with the tip of a pencil. There’s comfort in unbecoming and as a result, being reborn etc, etc, etc. Whatever. You know things are fucked when getting genetically Benjamin Button-ed doesn’t sound half bad. Erdrich didn’t miss with this one, I assume I’ll read it a fourth time as well.
This is my third time reading this book and I keep trying to figure out what draws me back to it. It’s almost a comfort read at this point but that feels oxymoronic, like someone finding comfort in true crime or The Handmaid’s Tale. But I think what’s so comforting about it is how calmly and quietly the end comes about. It’s not with a bang or a huge cataclysmic event. It’s like the whole “time moves forward because of the universe expanding and whatever expands, must contract” thing. All life on Earth just retracts and undoes itself, like manually rewinding a cassette with the tip of a pencil. There’s comfort in unbecoming and as a result, being reborn etc, etc, etc. Whatever. You know things are fucked when getting genetically Benjamin Button-ed doesn’t sound half bad. Erdrich didn’t miss with this one, I assume I’ll read it a fourth time as well.
This is a pretty wild tale. I seem to be drawn to near-future, cautionary tale lately. Chilling to read and think "how horrible!" and then see all the narrow parallels in our current battle for women to control their bodies and their reproductive organs. Not a warm or fuzzy story, but she always writes an interesting story.
Perhaps this piece of evolution makes no sense—our hunger for everyday sorts of visual pleasure—but I don't think so. I think we have survived because we love beauty and because we find each other beautiful. I think it may be our strongest quality.
This just didn't do it for me. Perhaps it was that the content surrounded the concept of pregnancy, one I'm unfamiliar/uninterested with. But I feel like the writing as well just didn't hit the mark for me. That said, it's a really interesting premise for a dystopia.
adventurous
emotional
hopeful
reflective
tense
fast-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes