What a remarkable piece of literature. Like most of her readers, my first encounter with Margaret Atwood was through The Handmaid’s Tale, which was first published when she was at mid-life, around 45 or 46 years old. Old Babes in the Wood, on the other hand, was first published in 2023, some 38 years after her other prominent work. The Margaret Atwood that we meet in this collection, published at 84, is a very different woman with a very different set of stories.
One thematic through-line through the stories in this collection is the question of what it means to age. What, in fact, does it even mean to grow old? We see this best illustrated by Tig and Nell, two characters that we follow through numerous stories (and which book-end the collection). We see their life development over time, as well as Nell’s struggle in coping with life without Tig. However, the role of aging plays an important role in a variety of other stories, including “My Evil Mother” and “Bad Teeth.” While “My Evil Mother” ostensibly follows an adolescent girl and her mother (taking place in the 1950s–which should tell us something about the perspective taken in the story), but we see the young woman become increasingly like her mother over time, especially when she has children. “Bad Teeth,” on the other hand, is a funny, low-stakes tale about female friendship between two elderly women. It asks: What do we remember, when do we dig in our feet, and when do we embrace the other with love for who they are?
Other stories, although not explicitly about aging, are in fact about the passage of time. For instance, “Airborne” examines the way that older feminist professors deal with politics shifts among the young. This is an interesting point, recognizing that those who are now aging made remarkably important strides for women’s rights in the 1960s, 70s, and 80s. In fact, their role is so important that their advances are now part of the overarching landscape. Young feminists, on the other hand, have their own fights in advancing egalitarian causes, and those from generations past don’t necessarily understand the needs or grievances of the youth.
We see cycles here, and it increasingly seems that each politically- or socially-significant innovation is not so important, at all. Or, perhaps it is, but what Atwood highlights is the way in which people live out generational archetypes rather than providing something truly new. I think Qoholeth, the author of the book of Ecclesiastes, would be quite impressed with this collection.
As I mentioned before, Nell and Tig are the highlights of the entire collection. While we do see their lives in the first section of the book, the final third of the book passes an enormous emotional punch. While the initial collection of Tig and Nell stories depict them together in life, the latter collection of Nell and Tig is something altogether different. While Tig is a central character, he isn’t alive. He is a “ghost”–not in a spooky, supernatural sense, but in a psychological sense. In fact, the entire latter group of Nell and Tig stories contains something quite eerie: there is presence where there should be absence (something characteristically “eerie” in Mark Fisher’s framing). Nell, when examining letters written by Tig’s also-deceased father, finds pencil marks on the documents in Tig’s handwriting–she wonders when he might have read them. She finds a small wooden box containing Tig’s sewing equipment. She finds instructions left by Tig in a mosquito net.
The tone in which Atwood writes about Tig and Nell is as significant as the stories themselves. Atwood is soft, tender, and loving toward these characters, but she’s also wry—allowing their inner voices to pose hopeful questions or asides (“It would be comforting, she’d thought”) only to deflate them with blunt reality (“This hasn’t happened. The three blue shirts are not comforting”). This deadpan humor prevents the grief from becoming maudlin–it’s really honest, and shows that Atwood (or Nell–are they the same person?) has a way of laughing at herself and her characters. We see how much they love(d) one another, and we see the power of durable commitment between two people who truly care about one another. These stories are so touching, so beautiful that they brought me to tears.
At risk of being morbid, part of me seriously wonders if this collection is a way for Atwood to prepare for her own death: to approach the topic with warmth, compassion, and a sense of inner peace. She reconciles who she was, the trajectory that she has pursued, and the contributions provided by her loved ones. Given that she is currently 86, this may very well be the case. If it is, I can only hope to prepare myself for my own inevitable dissolution as well as she has.
Margaret Atwood’s fiction is iconic, and Old Babes in the Wood is a testament to the fact that her skill has only increased with age. As her life experiences have developed, she is able to provide new insights that I wish other authors were able to mobilize. One issue on this front, I think, is the cult of youth that is so pervasive across Western society: an artist has to be “hip,” she has to be “cutting edge,” and she has to be “fashionable.” Unfortunately, this is too often read as: “She has to be young.” Atwood’s collection implodes this ridiculous idea, and I wish that older, more mature authors were given as much attention as so-and-so writer who just completed an MFA at some prestigious institution. I don’t need my own experiences reflected back at me–I need wiser, more experienced insight that teaches me where to go, and how to become. Atwood offers this with patience, love, and grace. Old Babes in the Wood is one of my top-reads of 2025, and I’m glad I waited until December to read it. Had I attempted it any earlier, I don’t know that I would have been ready for it.