By Margaret Atwood
My very first Margaret Atwood novel. I never made a point of reading her work because I was afraid it'd be too Can Lit, ie. self-serious and boring. I should've at least started with A Handmaid’s Tale, but that one has been hard to find in used bookstores since the 2017 series came out.
However, I read somewhere years ago that Cat’s Eye (1988) was one of those rare novels that explored the insecurity and cruelty that can be inherent in friendships between girls and young women. This was enough to put Cat’s Eye on my list. I found a cheap trade paperback at Chainon some time ago which had been on my to-read shelf until I was ready.
I started this novel sometime last fall, so it has taken me several months to read it. It’s not that it wasn’t a good book; in fact, I quite liked it. But it was hard for me to focus on it for very long.
And yes, it was rather self-serious and boring at times. I'd lose focus and distract myself with lighter, plot-driven entertainment. Sadly, The Troop and Death Comes to Pemberley were rather disappointing distractions, failing to deliver the gripping narrative suture I needed. Finally, Fritz Lieber’s Conjure Wife proved a satisfying read, and I think it helped push me to finish Cat’s Eye.
In the end, I’m glad I had finished it, though I wish I had read it in my twenties when I was navigating my own
female friendships and identity. Only a
couple friends of mine were mildly toxic, but what I mostly struggled with was trying to fit in, trying to figure
out who I was, how to reconcile with different people, etc. There was so much flailing about. So. Much. Flailing!
So I related to Cat's Eye for the most part, even though at times the novel seemed quite Toronto-centric and white. Overall, it was relatively universal in terms of the female
experience. It was well-written (it’s
Atwood after all), and I got a taste of how Atwood had come to define that CanLit style that has become
recognizable and somewhat generic in its sophistication. It’s hard to describe, but here is a sample, which
is more for myself to remember:
We greeted each other on sight with the outstretched hands, the demi-hugs, the cries of surprise and delight that women are supposed to make who haven’t seen each other for a while. Now I slump in Murray’s, drinking wishy-washy coffee, while Cordelia talks and I wonder why I have agreed to this. I am at a disadvantage: I’m in my crumpled, gravy-spotted Swiss Chalet uniform, my armpits are sweaty, my feet hurt, my hair in this humidity is unruly and dank and curling like singed wool. There are dark circles under my eyes, because last night was one of Josef’s nights.
Cordelia on the other hand is showing herself off to me. She wants me to see what has become of her, since her days of sloth and overeating and failure. She has reinvented herself. She’s cool as a cucumber, and brimming with casual news.
What she is doing is working at the Stratford Shakespearean Festival. She is a bit-part player. “Very minor things,” she says,waving her bracelet and rings dismissively, which means less minor than she says. “You know. Spear carrying, though of course I don’t carry spears.” She laughs, and lights a cigarette. I wonder if Cordelia has ever eaten snails, decide she is most likely on familiar terms with them; a depressing thought.
