Old Babes in the Wood by Margaret Atwood

Published by Doubleday on March 7, 2023

Aging women are the primary characters in Margaret Atwood’s latest story collection. Sexism and ageism blend in the background of the stories, as they did in Don Lemon’s astonishing remark that women are past their prime by time they enter their 50s. Atwood is proof that Lemon doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

The stories are diverse. A couple are probably meant to appeal to intellectuals. Some are funny, although the humor is uneven. The best stories are poignant. All of them showcase Atwood’s love of language, sometimes overtly, as characters discuss the origins and meanings of meanings of words they like or despise.

My favorite story in this collection is “My Evil Mother.” The narrator meets the father who (she suspects) abandoned her. When she was a child, she believed that her mother turned her father into a garden gnome. The narrator’s mother chats with her daughter about spells and potions. The daughter is never quite sure whether her mother is cooking soup or a witch’s brew. The mother tells her daughter that she has been carrying on a battle for the last four hundred years with the daughter’s gym teacher. Back in the day, the gym teacher collected severed penises, keeping them in a cedar box and feeding them bits of grain, as was the custom. Is the narrator’s mother mentally ill or does she just have a bizarre sense of humor? Probably more of the former, but the exasperated (and often embarrassed) narrator eventually realizes that lessons she learned from her mother will serve her in her relationship with her own daughter.

One story is told by a snail whose soul has transmigrated into a customer service representative. The story might be seen as an amusing if uncomfortable take on people who feel they have been born into the wrong bodies. A story told to quarantined humans by an alien has some funny moments. Fans of Chaucer or the Decameron (as well as readers who know how to google) might appreciate the story’s relationship to the character Griselda in folklore. Both stories ask questions about the purpose of being human.

A story set in the world of academia recounts a salty (and slightly drunken) conversation about the history of feminism as a group of women plan a symposium to lay “the foundations for the brave new generation of emerging non-cis-male creatives.” In another story that is probably meant for readers who appreciate education, Hypatia explains how her mother was murdered (skinned by clamshells, to be ghoulishly precise) by a mob of Christian men in Alexandria — while noting that, if it happened today, mob members would have recorded the murder on their phones. Not being an intellectual, I needed to google Hypatia of Alexandria to give the story some context. To be honest, I did the same for Griselda. Atwood is far above my level of intellect but I made an effort to keep up.

In a less successful story, Atwood uses a medium to help her interview George Orwell. He’s not surprised to learn about “cancel culture,” the insurrection, and evil uses of the internet. In another story that didn’t work for me, two aging Hungarians share scandalous memories, some of which might be real, other just fake news.

Atwood has chronicled the marriage of Tig and Nell during her writing career. Those characters star in the first three stories. The first suggests that fears of death are best ignored, lest we mourn events that have not yet happened. Better to preserve an illusion of safety until our fate is revealed. In the second, Nell does a favor for departed friends by telling their story, because they wanted to become words rather than a handful of dust. In the third story, Nell tries to immortalize a dead but beloved cat by making it the subject of Tennyson’s “Morte d’Arthur.”

The last four stories are about Nell and her memories of Tig after Tig’s death. Nell learns some things (and surmises others) about Tig’s father by reading poems that he wrote during the war. She isn’t sure what she learns, isn’t sure she’s the right audience for the amateurish poems, but she wants to say to the man, I hear you, or at least I’m trying.

One of the post-Tig stories takes the form of a letter in which Nell explains what it means to be a widow: grieving, coping, “tidying up” after a partner’s death, her sense that Tig is still present. The letter is heartfelt and honest, achingly sad and ultimately unsent because she knows that her friends want to hear conventional nothings from widows. Another story is devoted to memories of the lost husband, memories of both his vital and declining days.

The theme of the final story is that death is inconsiderate. It leaves the surviving partner to perform all the chores/repairs that were the duty of the lost partner. Yet she can’t blame Tig. He didn’t intend to grow old.

Growing old is not typically the subject of fiction until writers reach the age when looking back is easier than looking forward. At least when we are older, we don’t fear our own inevitable deaths so much as we fear the deaths of those we love — including, perhaps, a cat. I appreciated Atwood’s willingness to confront the subject in these stories with fearless honesty.

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