A few days ago, I recommended The Handmaid’s Tale to a friend who was on a dystopian kick. A few ours later, quite unexpectedly, I found myself itching to reread it.

By the second chapter, I was completely hooked. I devoured the book in less than 48 hours, staying up long into the night, grabbing the book first thing in the morning, before reaching for my glasses.

After I finished, I needed a hug. And I wondered how I had felt the first time I read it.

I have a dim memory of sitting on a bench under a tree, of holding the book loosely in my hand. I was eighteen, and at college. I don’t recall the text or what specific lines jumped out at me. Possibly it all seemed familiar–after all, the movie had frequently played on Canadian television.

I wonder if it chilled me then, as it does now, or if youth and naivete made its premise seem far off and impossible.

* Quote from The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood.

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