Publicado en http://lecturaylocura.com/resurgir-de...Pocas cosas hay más gratificantes que encontrarse poco a poco con libros de tus escritores favoritos e ir perfilando su carrera literaria, la evolución en su escritura y los temas que van tratando. Esto es sencillo cuando esta lectura es cronológica y se vuelve un caos inconexo cuando los lees desordenados, aunque al final consigas unir todos los flecos.Esto último me está sucediendo con la obra de Atwood; buena parte de culpa la tiene la publicación errática que se ha realizado en España de su obra por parte de varias editoriales. También es cierto que, hasta ahora, no ha gozado del favor del público ni con el “Príncipe de Asturias” y de ahí, que no hayamos conseguido la continuidad deseada.Todo lo indicado viene por la lectura de su obra de 1972, “Resurgir” y que supuso posiblemente el espaldarazo definitivo a la carrera de la canadiense; incluso el polémico Harold Bloom la incluyó en su famoso “Canon Occidental”; pero claro, yo he leído antes que esta obra “El asesino ciego” y “El cuento de la criada” (de las que podéis ver sendas reseñas pinchando en los títulos) y coger ahora esta, supone un abismo de distancia en temática y estilo.He dicho alguna vez que lo que me fascina de esta escritora es su eclecticismo y su progresiva mezcla de géneros y, sin embargo, esta obra es una muestra de introspección que, también es cierto, me desvela otra de las temáticas que usa habitualmente la escritora y que en los anteriores aparecía más de pasada: el ecologismo.La obra se divide en tres partes muy diferenciadas; en las dos primeras aprovecha la reunión de los cuatro protagonistas para profundizar en sus relaciones interpersonales; de hecho asistimos, desde la perspectiva de la narradora, a un ordenamiento de lo que siente, a una serie de epifanías que le ayudan a darse cuenta de lo que en realidad siente (o no siente), por ejemplo con respecto a su amante actual:“Le tengo cariño, prefiero tenerlo cerca que no tenerlo; aunque estaría bien que significara algo más para mí. El hecho de que no sea así me entristece: no me ha vuelto a pasar con nadie después de mi marido. Un divorcio es como una amputación, sobrevives pero queda menos de ti.”O con respecto a la naturaleza, el maltrato que sufre y la indefensión ante un futuro nada halagüeño:“Pero, de todas formas, habían matado a la garza. No importa de qué país sean, decía mi cabeza, siguen siendo americanos, son lo que nos espera, en lo que nos estamos convirtiendo. Se propagan como un virus, se meten en el cerebro y atacan las células, y las células cambian desde dentro, y las que tienen la enfermedad no lo notan. Como en las películas de ciencia ficción de sesión de noche, criaturas del espacio exterior, ladrones de cuerpos inyectándose a sí mismos dentro de ti, desposeyéndote de tu cerebro; sus ojos, cáscaras de huevo sin pupila bajo las gafas oscuras. Si tienes el mismo aspecto que ellos y hablas como ellos y piensas como ellos, entonces eres ellos, decía yo, hablas su idioma, un idioma que representa todo lo que eres.”Sin embargo, no se queda en esto la novela, es mucho más ambiciosa; solo tenemos que observar la siguiente reflexión de la protagonista:“De nuevo el idioma. Yo no podía usarlo porque no era mío. Él debía saber lo que quería decir, pero era una palabra imprecisa; los esquimales tenían cincuenta y dos palabras para la nieve porque era importante para ellos; debería haber la misma cantidad para el amor.”Esto nos alerta sobre la cualidad falible del lenguaje como pintor de la realidad que nos rodea, que se suma al fracaso que supone intentar salvar un mundo que se va a pique para la narradora:“Salvar al mundo, todos quieren hacerlo; los hombres creen que pueden hacerlo con pistolas, las mujeres con sus cuerpos, el amor lo conquista todo, los conquistadores aman a todos, espejismos creados por las palabras.”Todo ello produce una deconstrucción que empieza en el lenguaje y se extiende a la realidad que nos rodea; la única forma, entonces, de salvar a la naturaleza de la destrucción que lo rodea es abandonar las palabras y unirnos a ella:“Me llama otra vez, balanceándose sobre el muelle que no es tierra ni agua, manos sobre las caderas, cabeza echada hacia atrás y ojos oteando. Su voz está furiosa: no va a esperar mucho más. Pero de momento espera.El lago está en silencio, los árboles me rodean, sin preguntar ni dar nada.”Somos uno con la naturaleza en este ejercicio regresivo; quizá no estamos salvándola pero sí que nos estamos salvando nosotros; en la naturaleza, en lo salvaje, se encuentra nuestro lado más primitivo y menos exigente; es una comodidad para nuestras vidas.Obra muy introspectiva que nos desvela aspectos diferentes de la obra de Margaret Atwood y que, desde luego, no se puede dejar de leer.Los textos provienen de la traducción del inglés de Gabriela Bustelo Tortella para la obra “Resurgir” en Alianza Editorial.
Was it my lack of awareness or the author's skill that it wasn't until afterwards, mulling over how to review without a major spoiler, that I realized that this first person narrative never once reveals this first person's name. This realization sent me scurrying back into the pages,but no, even in crucial scenes where it would have been easy to slip it in, I could find no reference.My imagination is not satisfied.I think of her as Catherine.In a way, it is entirely fitting that she does not reveal her name for this is a story of identity crises and spiritual emergency.What surfaces throughout the narrative are flashes of truth and questions concerning authenticity and the nature of trust and power,and the unreliable continuity of memory. This is also a book about relationship. Atwood explores the dynamics between two couples whose long term friendship is tested when it becomes unavoidably clear that what they have relied on in each other is only superficial, and that beneath their cool surface presentation turmoil threatens. Learning of the disappearance of her father, Catherine efficiently organizes a lift back to the home she fled abrubtly decades ago. Her indifference to her lover, Joe,is quickly apparant but her feelings for her parents and her childhood off the grid,border on reverence.As reality begins to intrude on her assumptions,so does memory intrude on reality. Catherine isolates herself in her suspicions,keeping up her protective front as she cares for her friends who are out of their element away from the city. Catherine is drifting close to an existential meltdown but she keeps it below the surface,hidden from her friends who are preoccupied with their own games. When "the creature in me, plant-animal,sends out filaments, I ferry it between death and life, I multiply" and the wall she has constructed between memory and unacceptable truth collapses.Catherines personal paranoia echoes a particularly Canadian archetypal fear-set and I wonder if this will make a difference to non-Canadian readers. This is the fear of being engulfed, taken over: ...they're what's in store for us, what we are turning into. They spread themselves like a virus...and the one's that have the disease can't tell the difference....If you look like them and talk like them you are them. p139 But the metaphor is not limited to Americans: The machine is gradual, it takes a little of you at a time, it leaves the shell....the dead can defend themselves, to be half-dead is worse.p178Misunderstandings abound. Pivitol is the one that begins with David's tirade at the sight of 'some Americans...their boat sloshing' and David.'shaking his clenched fist and yelling "Pigs"....they thought he was greeting, they waved and smiled.'Worse are the communication gaps within oneself, and the spiritual confusion that can insidiously inflitrate logic and seed the soul with crippling guilt and doubt. Nurtured by denial, these fractures are what finally crack the facade of equilibrium until what has been held in the unconscious is revealed and the opportunity of coming to terms with onself is possible. The gods, so forbidding in their aspect, are no help, "questionable once more, theoretical as Jesus. They've receded,back into the past, inside the skull, is it the same place....I regret them, but they give only one kind of truth..." p205Margaret Atwood was relatively unknown when this was published in 1972. She established right from the beginning that she was not afraid to go beyond the parameters of mainstream expectations.Her novels all concerm relationships, but she could never be relegated to chickLit. Her writing is not especially fluid, especially evident in her earlier work. The reader is required to be constantly attentive to place, tone, and voice, but she has a knack for moving the story along through the often ponderous and obscure political and metaphysical challenges she offers. She also excels at throwing out exquisite epigramatic observations. Seeing as the story ends at another choicepoint with no certain resolution, I think it may be fitting to end with this one:They think...I should be in mourning. But nothing has died, everything is alive, everything is waiting to become alive. p170
What do You think about Surfacing (1998)?
An interesting, compelling read about a young woman's intense struggle with her reactions to civilization encroaching on nature, how the dichotomy has played out in her own life and, through her eyes, in the wider world as well. I did like this book, the 3 stars are only because of the novels by Atwood that I like even more -- she's one of my favorite writers. Even with this early book, one can see themes emerging that she will use in later works, too, though in different ways, as I find she's always inventive.
—Teresa
I really hate when a masterful book is poorly edited. Running into typos in Margaret Atwood's surreal journey into and -- arguably -- through the sanest insanity you'll ever encounter is like seeing a mustache on the Mona Lisa. Grrr.My only criticism of the book per se is that the first person narrator's quasi-stream of thought delivery is challenging to follow and not always as rewarding as I'd like. But I've been spoiled lately with books that have a lot of substance and still read effortlessly. Maybe I'd forgotten how to work for a story. This one is absolutely worth a bit of extra decoding. : )
—Jo Deurbrouck
When her father disappears, the protagonist of Surfacing returns to his remote lakehouse in a search which leads not to her fatherbut into the wilds of the land and her own past. One of Atwood's earliest novels, Surface's plot is deceptively simple and its themes complex. The real world events of the book are sparse and straightforward, but complexity lies in the protagonist's past and her mental state. Her flawed communication, false memories, and lies make her the consummate unreliable narrator; that her journey of self-discovery is also a decent into madness only complicates and confuses her story. The twists and instability may catch the reader off-guard, but following that intriguing, nuanced, subjective path is also the book's delight: it is a quiet, thoughtful process heavy with metaphor and symbolism, a journey of understanding and of self.Unfortunately, the end of the book takes a sudden turn as the protagonist plummets into and then skyrockets out of madness. Although introduced with subtlety and grace, her madness comes to feel more symbolic than realistic—and in a book already awash with symbolism, this sudden exaggeration is too much: the loss of subtlety makes the ending feel hurried and almost clunky, and the loss of realism strips the book down to bare symbolism which hangs heavy without the support of a more realistic plot. Or perhaps Surfacing wasn't the Atwood novel for me, and those themes didn't have enough personal appeal to justify their heavy-handedness. If this is the case then I don't much mind: there are already many Atwood novels which I love without reservation, and that this one doesn't meet their high standard is hardly an insult. In the end, I give Surfacing a moderate recommendation: it's a fascinating story of unreliability, self, and mind, but I can't overlook its flaws.
—Juushika
