I wonder at what point in the writing process Margaret Atwood fell in love with her creation. Rakunks? Liobams? Mo’hairs? No, not even Crakers. It’s the Pigoons I wonder about. It’s no surprise – given the context – the anthropomorphism should register at some level with so many of these animals, but it’s with the Pigoons that a sense of warmth also emerges. You can keep your bouncy liobams and your swishy Mo’hairs, it’s the sheer wiliness, the burgeoning social mores of the big pigs that we feel the emotional connection. Could you be forgiven for thinking that their stratagems might herald a truly dark turn in the closing chapters?
Margaret Atwood’s measured approach to the voices in this trilogy is something to behold. The uneasiness that descends toward the tortured in Oryx and Crake, the zealous kaleidoscope through which we find the God’s Gardeners in The Year of The Flood is evenly matched in MaddAddam with the interaction with the Crakers. It’s a fascinating view of what the careless word can achieve, and is of course anything but careless. I wonder how it would feel to know that I’ll likely think of Margaret Atwood now every time I hit my thumb with a hammer. Oh, …
And then there are those tiny touches that linger in the mind. I found myself hijacked on the train when reading of ink made from crushed elderberries. How strange is the range of human emotion. I guess somewhere inside us all there is a latent yearning for the Pilars of this world…or the next.