Science Fiction
![Margaret Atwood - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B000AQTHI0.jpg)
The Testaments: The Sequel to The Handmaid's Tale
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
WINNER OF THE BOOKER PRIZE
AMAZON EDITORS' PICK FOR THE BEST BOOK OF 2019
The Testaments is a modern masterpiece, a powerful novel that can be read on its own or as a companion to Margaret Atwood's classic, The Handmaid's Tale.
More than fifteen years after the events of The Handmaid's Tale, the theocratic regime of the Republic of Gilead maintains its grip on power, but there are signs it is beginning to rot from within. At this crucial moment, the lives of three radically different women converge, with potentially explosive results.
Two have grown up as part of the first generation to come of age in the new order. The testimonies of these two young women are joined by a third: Aunt Lydia. Her complex past and uncertain future unfold in surprising and pivotal ways.
With The Testaments, Margaret Atwood opens up the innermost workings of Gilead, as each woman is forced to come to terms with who she is, and how far she will go for what she believes.
WINNER OF THE BOOKER PRIZE
AMAZON EDITORS' PICK FOR THE BEST BOOK OF 2019
The Testaments is a modern masterpiece, a powerful novel that can be read on its own or as a companion to Margaret Atwood's classic, The Handmaid's Tale.
More than fifteen years after the events of The Handmaid's Tale, the theocratic regime of the Republic of Gilead maintains its grip on power, but there are signs it is beginning to rot from within. At this crucial moment, the lives of three radically different women converge, with potentially explosive results.
Two have grown up as part of the first generation to come of age in the new order. The testimonies of these two young women are joined by a third: Aunt Lydia. Her complex past and uncertain future unfold in surprising and pivotal ways.
With The Testaments, Margaret Atwood opens up the innermost workings of Gilead, as each woman is forced to come to terms with who she is, and how far she will go for what she believes.
Editorial Reviews
"A chilling invitation no Atwood fan can resist . . . The Testaments reminds us of the power of truth in the face of evil."
-People
"Margaret Atwood's powers are on full display . . . Everyone should read The Testaments."
-Los Angeles Times
"A fast, immersive narrative that's as propulsive as it is melodramatic."
-Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times
"The Testaments is worthy of the literary classic it continues. That's thanks in part to Atwood's capacity to surprise, even writing in a universe we think we know so well."
-USA Today
"The women of Gilead are more fascinating than ever."
-NPR
"There may be no novelist better suited to tapping the current era's anxieties than Margaret Atwood."
-Entertainment Weekly
"Powerful, revealing, and engaging."
-Boston Globe
"A rare treat . . . a corker of a plot, culminating in a breathless flight to freedom."
-Laura Miller, Slate.com
-People
"Margaret Atwood's powers are on full display . . . Everyone should read The Testaments."
-Los Angeles Times
"A fast, immersive narrative that's as propulsive as it is melodramatic."
-Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times
"The Testaments is worthy of the literary classic it continues. That's thanks in part to Atwood's capacity to surprise, even writing in a universe we think we know so well."
-USA Today
"The women of Gilead are more fascinating than ever."
-NPR
"There may be no novelist better suited to tapping the current era's anxieties than Margaret Atwood."
-Entertainment Weekly
"Powerful, revealing, and engaging."
-Boston Globe
"A rare treat . . . a corker of a plot, culminating in a breathless flight to freedom."
-Laura Miller, Slate.com
Readers Top Reviews
Elizabeth McBainRoma
It was always going to be difficult to reach the same heights as the Handmaid’s Tale. The only way I can think to describe it is to say the book seemed to me a little as though it had been written by Jessica Fletcher, of Murder She Wrote. Who had been binge watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
J. JoyceMiss Tara
Spoilers ahead. I enjoyed the book and read it practically in one sitting. But there are a couple of baffling plot points that spoiled it for me. Maybe someone can explain... #1 What was the point of Aunt Lydia plotting to bring Baby Nicole back to Gilead, only to send her back to Canada with the microdot? Why did she need to expose the girl to such danger, and surely she could have got the microdot into Canada by some other means? #2 Would exposing the crimes of the Gilead ruling class really be enough to bring the whole society down? In our post truth age, with world leaders literally breaking the law in plain sight on a daily basis, this seems like a far-fetched liberal fantasy.
Sas275C Herbst
Compared to her other works, The Testaments is definitely not one of her finer works. The characters felt very one dimensional and lacked any sort of depth or development, the plot line boring and contrived. It felt like something Atwood wrote in response to the popularity of the tv adaptation of The Handmaids Tale, and not actually something she felt passionate about.
Kyrie RobinsonM. Hen
No suspense or excitement, nowhere NEAR as taut as the first. You learn nothing interesting and new about Gilead. It’s just 3 women that you OUGHT to care about because of who they are, but in reality you do t care about any of them. There’s no character arcs, no journeys, no movement. I can’t believe how many people rate this book highly. Is everyone just stuck in here worship because the first book was so amazing? Probably so.
Joanna D.
"Testaments" is the long-awaited sequel to "The Handmaid's Tale" first a bestselling novel by distinguished Canadian author Margaret Atwood and then a wildly successful series based on the book on Hulu. If you expected a "happily ever after" story about "Offred" that isn't this book. It's more about the fall of the dystopian and non-functional Gilead from the point of view of some of the women, gender-traitors, who run the regime and also some of the young women born into the system. Haven't you wondered what a young girl would think of her impending marriage in such a world where women are vessels, not allowed to read and treated as chattel? Best of all in this book is the story of Agnes Jemima, a young girl growing up as a daughter of a Commander and a Wife. She's an innocent, trying to make sense of the Gilead world where everything is kept secret or is an out-and-out deception. Her simplistic voice is almost like that of Offred in the original Handmaid book, with its cool observation and background of confusion about what went on before or behind her back. Then we get the "autobiography" and first-person story of Aunt Lydia, the moral guardian of the Gilead society. As well as some of the story of the "Underground Female-Road" and the resistance (Mayday Movement) The deeper look into the complex villain Aunt Lydia fleshes out the cartoonish cruel and vicious prison matron picture into something much more interesting. I wondered how such a dysfunctional society bent on execution, control and utter despondency could survive for long, so here is the sequel filling in that story.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1 | The Ardua Hall Holograph
Only dead people are allowed to have statues, but I have been given one while still alive. Already I am petrified.
This statue was a small token of appreciation for my many contributions, said the citation, which was read out by Aunt Vidala. She'd been assigned the task by our superiors, and was far from appreciative. I thanked her with as much modesty as I could summon, then pulled the rope that released the cloth drape shrouding me; it billowed to the ground, and there I stood. We don't do cheering here at Ardua Hall, but there was some discreet clapping. I inclined my head in a nod.
My statue is larger than life, as statues tend to be, and shows me as younger, slimmer, and in better shape than I've been for some time. I am standing straight, shoulders back, my lips curved into a firm but benevolent smile. My eyes are fixed on some cosmic point of reference understood to represent my idealism, my unflinching commitment to duty, my determination to move forward despite all obstacles. Not that anything in the sky would be visible to my statue, placed as it is in a morose cluster of trees and shrubs beside the footpath running in front of Ardua Hall. We Aunts must not be too presumptuous, even in stone.
Clutching my left hand is a girl of seven or eight, gazing up at me with trusting eyes. My right hand rests on the head of a woman crouched at my side, her hair veiled, her eyes upturned in an expression that could be read as either craven or grateful-one of our Handmaids-and behind me is one of my Pearl Girls, ready to set out on her missionary work. Hanging from a belt around my waist is my Taser. This weapon reminds me of my failings: had I been more effective, I would not have needed such an implement. The persuasion in my voice would have been enough.
As a group of statuary it's not a great success: too crowded. I would have preferred more emphasis on myself. But at least I look sane. It could well have been otherwise, as the elderly sculptress-a true believer since deceased-had a tendency to confer bulging eyes on her subjects as a sign of their pious fervour. Her bust of Aunt Helena looks rabid, that of Aunt Vidala is hyperthyroid, and that of Aunt Elizabeth appears ready to explode.
At the unveiling the sculptress was nervous. Was her renditionof me sufficiently flattering? Did I approve of it? Would I be seen toapprove? I toyed with the idea of frowning as the sheet came off, butthought better of it: I am not without compassion. "Very lifelike," Isaid.
That was nine years ago. Since then my statue has weathered:pigeons have decorated me, moss has sprouted in my damper crevices.Votaries have taken to leaving offerings at my feet: eggs forfertility, oranges to suggest the fullness of pregnancy, croissants toreference the moon. I ignore the breadstuffs-usuallythey havebeen rained on-butpocket the oranges. Oranges are so refreshing.
* * *
I write these words in my private sanctum within the library of Ardua Hall-one of the few libraries remaining after the enthusiastic book-burnings that have been going on across our land. The corrupt and blood-smeared fingerprints of the past must be wiped away to create a clean space for the morally pure generation that is surely about to arrive. Such is the theory.
But among these bloody fingerprints are those made by ourselves, and these can't be wiped away so easily. Over the years I've buried a lot of bones; now I'm inclined to dig them up again-if only for your edification, my unknown reader. If you are reading, this manuscript at least will have survived. Though perhaps I'm fantasizing: perhaps I will never have a reader. Perhaps I'll only be talking to the wall, in more ways than one.
That's enough inscribing for today. My hand hurts, my back aches, and my nightly cup of hot milk awaits me. I'll stash this screed in its hiding place, avoiding the surveillance cameras-I know where they are, having placed them myself. Despite such precautions, I'm aware of the risk I'm running: writing can be dangerous. What betrayals, and then what denunciations, might lie in store for me? There are several within Ardua Hall who would love to get their hands on these pages.
Wait, I counsel them silently: it will get worse.
Only dead people are allowed to have statues, but I have been given one while still alive. Already I am petrified.
This statue was a small token of appreciation for my many contributions, said the citation, which was read out by Aunt Vidala. She'd been assigned the task by our superiors, and was far from appreciative. I thanked her with as much modesty as I could summon, then pulled the rope that released the cloth drape shrouding me; it billowed to the ground, and there I stood. We don't do cheering here at Ardua Hall, but there was some discreet clapping. I inclined my head in a nod.
My statue is larger than life, as statues tend to be, and shows me as younger, slimmer, and in better shape than I've been for some time. I am standing straight, shoulders back, my lips curved into a firm but benevolent smile. My eyes are fixed on some cosmic point of reference understood to represent my idealism, my unflinching commitment to duty, my determination to move forward despite all obstacles. Not that anything in the sky would be visible to my statue, placed as it is in a morose cluster of trees and shrubs beside the footpath running in front of Ardua Hall. We Aunts must not be too presumptuous, even in stone.
Clutching my left hand is a girl of seven or eight, gazing up at me with trusting eyes. My right hand rests on the head of a woman crouched at my side, her hair veiled, her eyes upturned in an expression that could be read as either craven or grateful-one of our Handmaids-and behind me is one of my Pearl Girls, ready to set out on her missionary work. Hanging from a belt around my waist is my Taser. This weapon reminds me of my failings: had I been more effective, I would not have needed such an implement. The persuasion in my voice would have been enough.
As a group of statuary it's not a great success: too crowded. I would have preferred more emphasis on myself. But at least I look sane. It could well have been otherwise, as the elderly sculptress-a true believer since deceased-had a tendency to confer bulging eyes on her subjects as a sign of their pious fervour. Her bust of Aunt Helena looks rabid, that of Aunt Vidala is hyperthyroid, and that of Aunt Elizabeth appears ready to explode.
At the unveiling the sculptress was nervous. Was her renditionof me sufficiently flattering? Did I approve of it? Would I be seen toapprove? I toyed with the idea of frowning as the sheet came off, butthought better of it: I am not without compassion. "Very lifelike," Isaid.
That was nine years ago. Since then my statue has weathered:pigeons have decorated me, moss has sprouted in my damper crevices.Votaries have taken to leaving offerings at my feet: eggs forfertility, oranges to suggest the fullness of pregnancy, croissants toreference the moon. I ignore the breadstuffs-usuallythey havebeen rained on-butpocket the oranges. Oranges are so refreshing.
* * *
I write these words in my private sanctum within the library of Ardua Hall-one of the few libraries remaining after the enthusiastic book-burnings that have been going on across our land. The corrupt and blood-smeared fingerprints of the past must be wiped away to create a clean space for the morally pure generation that is surely about to arrive. Such is the theory.
But among these bloody fingerprints are those made by ourselves, and these can't be wiped away so easily. Over the years I've buried a lot of bones; now I'm inclined to dig them up again-if only for your edification, my unknown reader. If you are reading, this manuscript at least will have survived. Though perhaps I'm fantasizing: perhaps I will never have a reader. Perhaps I'll only be talking to the wall, in more ways than one.
That's enough inscribing for today. My hand hurts, my back aches, and my nightly cup of hot milk awaits me. I'll stash this screed in its hiding place, avoiding the surveillance cameras-I know where they are, having placed them myself. Despite such precautions, I'm aware of the risk I'm running: writing can be dangerous. What betrayals, and then what denunciations, might lie in store for me? There are several within Ardua Hall who would love to get their hands on these pages.
Wait, I counsel them silently: it will get worse.
