The Handmaid's Tale

The Handmaid's Tale

By  Margaret Atwood

WITH A NEW INTRODUCTION FROM MARGARET ATWOOD

WITH A NEW INTRODUCTION FROM MARGARET ATWOOD

The Republic of Gilead offers Offred only one function: to breed. If she deviates, she will, like dissenters, be hanged at the wall or sent out to die slowly of radiation sickness. But even a repressive state cannot obliterate desire – neither Offred's nor that of the two men on which her future hangs.

Brilliantly conceived and executed, this powerful vision of the future gives full rein to Margaret Atwood's irony, wit and astute perception.

Format & Editions

Paperback

9781784873189

May 22, 2017

Vintage Classics

RRP $19.99

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Paperback

9781784871444

October 3, 2016

Vintage Children's Classics

RRP $14.99

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Paperback

9780099511663

December 1, 2010

Vintage Classics

RRP $14.99

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EBook

9781473546967

August 4, 2016

Vintage Digital

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EBook

9781446485477

May 15, 2012

Vintage Digital

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Hardback

9781784708238

October 16, 2017

Vintage

RRP $29.99

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Extract

We slept in what had once been the gymnasium. The floor was of varnished wood, with stripes and circles painted on it, for the games that were formerly played there; the hoops for the basketball nets were still in place, though the nets were gone. A balcony ran around the room, for the spectators, and I thought I could smell, faintly like an afterimage, the pungent scent of sweat, shot through with the sweet taint of chewing gum and perfume from the watching girls, felt-skirted as I knew from pictures, later in mini-skirts, then pants, then in one earring, spiky green-streaked hair. Dances would have been held there; the music lingered, a palimpsest of unheard sound, style upon style, an undercurrent of drums, a forlorn wail, garlands made of tissue-paper flowers, cardboard devils, a revolving ball of mirrors, powdering the dancers with a snow of light.

There was old sex in the room and loneliness, and expectation, of something without a shape or name. I remember that yearning, for something that was always about to happen and was never the same as the hands that were on us there and then, in the small of the back, or out back, in the parking lot, or in the television room with the sound turned down and only the pictures flickering over lifting flesh.

Also by Margaret Atwood