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57 pages 1 hour read

Margaret Atwood

The Handmaid's Tale

Fiction | Novel | Adult | Published in 1985

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Symbols & Motifs

The Color Red

The color red is symbolically significant in the novel, most prominently in relation to the clothing Offred and the other Handmaids are forced to wear. Describing her clothing, Offred notes “[e]verything except the wings around my face is red: the colour of blood, which defines us” (18). The allusion to blood is particularly important, with its connections to menstruation, reproductive capability, and birth. These are all key aspects of how Handmaids are valued in Gilead: as potential surrogate mothers, rather than as people. Blood also recalls self-harm and suicide, or the “escapes […] you can open in yourself, given a cutting edge” (18), a common behavior among the desperate, hopeless Handmaids.

Red also has other well-known associations. It is traditionally connected to ideas of fertility, the ripening of fruits, or the reproductive role of flowers. It is also widely associated with sin, shame, and especially sexuality, something that is reinforced several times throughout the novel—for instance, when Offred is shocked at visiting Japanese tourists’ “lipstick, red, outlining the damp cavities of their mouths” (38). These symbolic meanings reflect the ambiguity of the Handmaids’ positions in Gileadean society. Although, officially, they “aren’t concubines, geisha girls, courtesans” (146), Handmaids are still seen as potential temptresses, both sinful and seductive, something that is highlighted by Serena Joy’s jealous guarding of her husband against Offred. 

Language as a Tool of Social Control

Language is used as a tool of social control, and its use often provides insight into the way Gilead co-opts Christian belief systems to add legitimacy and authority to its politics. The use of names like “Angels” and “Commanders of the Faithful” to describe figures of authority presents these men as part of a religious tradition and suggests that their actions are an expression of God’s will or that they are somehow divinely appointed. Similarly, the title “Handmaid” alludes to the “mouldy [sic] old Rachel and Leah stuff” (99) as a means of justifying the oppression of the Handmaids as something with scriptural precedent, giving the acts of sexual abuse they endure a veneer of Biblical respectability and ceremonial importance.

Other euphemistic naming does not draw on religious sources but still works to further Gilead’s goals by manipulating how people or acts are perceived and discussed. The name “Aunts” presents these vicious, dominating enforcers as caring and supportive, strengthening the idea that they are actually working for the Handmaids’ benefit and making their violent indoctrination seem like familial “tough love” from wiser, older women. The description of nonconforming women as “Unwomen” dehumanizes them, making it easy to excuse the cruel treatment to which they are subjected. Likewise, naming babies with birth defects “Unbabies” both avoids the discomfort of discussing medical problems or fertility issues and, again, dehumanizes the subjects so that their deaths can be more easily kept at a distance, rather than directly addressed. A similar process occurs with the presentation of homosexuality as “Gender Treachery” (53), which suggests that same-sex desire is something sinful and malicious, again “justifying” the brutal treatment homosexuals undergo at the hands of the repressive state. 

Stories and Messages

Stories and messages are symbolically significant throughout the novel. As the “Historical Notes” reveal, the novel is comprised of the memories of an escaped Handmaid, which were supposedly found recorded on several cassette tapes. Offred makes explicit reference to this storytelling process and how important it is to tell her story and to have someone, however tenuously linked, to talk to about her experiences. After all, she reasons, if she is telling a story, then “[she] must be telling it to someone. You don’t tell a story only to yourself. There’s always someone else” (49). This gives her an opportunity to imagine an audience for her story, an audience of people outside her immediate surroundings and terrible conditions. She makes this relationship even clearer when she observes that “[b]y telling you anything at all I’m at least believing in you […] I believe you into existence” (279). This gives her a sense of connection with others that makes her isolation seem less stark and frightening. Offred’s prayer, where she says to God, “I wish you would tell me Your Name […] But You will do as well as anything” (204) recalls this moment, suggesting that this, too, is a form of storytelling that serves to make Offred feel less isolated and vulnerable. Likewise, telling herself stories about what may have happened to Luke allows her to remember him and maintain her attachment to him, and help her imagine a time where she is free again and, perhaps, reunited with him.

Other examples of stories and messages are less explicitly explored but are no less significant. The Handmaids’ secret sharing of their real names allows them to hold onto their previous identities and lives and refuse to let the new narratives and identities the state has constructed for them become the official stories of who they are. Similarly, when Offred finds the words “Nolite te bastardes carborundorum” scratched into the floor in “tiny writing” (62), she is receiving a message from someone else, a fellow victim of Gilead’s abuse, something that makes her feel less alone. The stolen flower Offred plans to press under her bed for the next Handmaid is intended to have the same meaning: a silent message of solidarity “sent” from one victim to another.  

Women Reduced to Body Parts

The image of women’s body parts, severed or separated, recurs throughout the novel. Offred observes that, in Gilead, her body “determines [her] completely” (73). More specifically, the reproductive capability of her body determines her, and she is frequently reduced to only that capacity in the eyes of Gileadean state. This is explored through the image of Offred and others being symbolically severed or divided. The sheet in the doctor’s surgery “intersects me so that the doctor will never see my face. He deals with a torso only” (70). The doctor and others do not see Offred as a whole human being, a complete individual, but rather see only her torso and the reproductive organs within. Offred reflects this later when she observes that, in the dogma of Gilead, “We are two-legged wombs, that’s all” (146).

This imagery appears again when Offred, no longer viewing her “body as an instrument […] of pleasure,” sees herself as Gilead does, only in terms of her womb, the rest of her reduced to “a cloud congealed around a central object, the shape of a pear, which is hard and more real than I am” (84). It is also central to the Ceremony where the Commander “is fucking […] the lower part of my body” (104). In this case, Offred herself does the “dissecting.” Forced to endure the abuse of the Ceremony, she dissociates from her body, treating the “lower part” as something that has been removed from her, as though she is not actually enduring the abuse.

A moment earlier in the novel parallels and preempts some of this imagery. As her mother’s friends burn pornographic magazines, Offred watches as “big flakes of paper [come] loose, [sail] into the air, still on fire, parts of women’s bodies, turning to black ash in the air” (48). As the radical feminist “book burning” and censorship mirrors and makes comment on Gilead’s censorship and control of sexuality, the sight of “dissected” body parts holds a distorted mirror to Gilead’s perception of women as body parts rather than whole individuals. 

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