Dear Miss Atwood,
I finally finished your 600+page-Booker-prize-winning novel, The Blind Assassin, after more than a month. It’s a shame because I could have finished the book in less time (a week, maybe). Unfortunately, I’m no longer the fast and hungry reader that I was as proved by the fact that your masterpiece is only my fifth book in 2013 and the “-ber” months are coming.
I just want to thank you. As you said in the book, “Paper isn’t important. It’s the words on them that are important.” and boy, the words you wrote were lovely.
Thank you for reminding me of the beauty in long books. Of reading about a character in such length that it makes you feel like you know her personally. The last time I felt that way was on the Cirque du Freak series and yet, that one talked about Vampires and Vampaneeze. Yours, in a literal sense, was about a person who could easily have been anyone’s grandmother.
Thank you for Alex Thomas. For him dying, even if journeys are supposed to end in lovers meeting. It felt like Atonement all over again, nothing more romantic than failed love. Maybe because it doesn’t have the possibility of falling out, of the lovers feeling anything other than obsession for each other.
Thank you for using twentieth-century history as the backdrop for this compelling tale. For rekindling my desire to learn about the Great Depression, the second World War.and really, everything in between, before and after.
And lastly, thank you for making me realize that there really is no such relationship like that of sisters. Though I can in no way relate with the complexity of Iris and Laura’s stories and experiences, me and my schwester have our fair share of secrets, of misunderstandings, of short-lived spite, of belief, of trust, and of course, love.
Again, thank you Miss Atwood.
And oh, you’re as beautiful as your prose.