The Blindfold discussion

Let's start discussing this book July 15, 2008. The Blindfold

I'm sorry to hear people have been having difficulty getting a copy of this. I wish I could mail it to people, but that would make me an evangelist and I still have to reread it to see how I regard it now.

I know the discussion doesn't start until next week, and I'm only about two thirds of the way through, but I had to stop to toss out an observation that I hope we address in our discussion. There are so many references to "blurring" and "distortion." It happens with people, places, objects, and events. I'm looking forward to the discussion!
- Misty

I just finished this, having borrowed it from my local library. I, too, am interested in hearing people's comments.

In honor of Happyreader's "It's the 15th in Europe already" theory, I'll post this now because I have no idea when I'll wake up (I don't mean that to sound morbid, just being honest about my wacky sleeping schedule).

It's hard to say how much of this novel is autobiographical. Like her protagonist Iris Vegan (first name spelled backwards, last name being her mother's maiden name, Siri Hustvedt does suffer from migraines (see http://migraine.blogs.nytimes.com/aut...) and did get a PhD at Columbia University, writing her thesis on Charles Dickens entitled, "Figures of Dust: A Reading of Our Mutual Friend." On page 190, Iris considers the line between reality and fiction, noting that our reality is "hazy with our dreams and fantasies." Perhaps that's the best way to see this, reality colored by fantasy.

This is Siri Hustvedt's first novel (1992), but she started out as a poet, with her collection Reading to You (1983). Her other novels include The Enchantment of Lily Dahl (1996), What I Loved (2003), and The Sorrow of an American (2008). She has also published collections of her essays: Yonder (1998), Mysteries of the rectangle: Essays on Painting (2005), and A Plea for Eros (2005). Many ideas discussed in The Blindfold recur in her other works, like her fascination with visual art, what the senses and words can and cannot capture, disguising and escaping one's identity, voyeurism, and traces that the dead leave behind. Also salient are her questions on gender identity, the idea of "fictions within fiction," and the boundaries of evil.

There's so much to discuss, but I thought we could start in the first subsection with Iris's work for Mr. Morning. Iris uses a different last name on a whim. Later, Mr. morning tells her how masks add a layer of "color and danger." This, in turn, made me think of Poe's story "The Cask of Amontillado," which has much too much color and danger for my tastes, but also how many Goodreads users take on pseudonyms, both for privacy, creativity, and branding, I can only guess. What are your thoughts on the use of aliases in life? It's a common practice for authors, but what meaning does it take on in other spheres?

Another question is, was Mr. Morning's project "crazy" or could life be resurrected by examining the objects of the dead? What meaning do these objects hold after their owner is gone and their original use and history lost?

It won't be the 15th in California for 54 more minutes, but here I am.

I haven't finished this yet. It seems more like a series of short stories than a novel. I was surprised to find I had read the first section. It must have been in Best Short Stories.

I'm getting the same feeling from the book as a whole as I did when I read the first section earlier. It's a feeling as if I'm underwater, in some kind of slightly surreal dream. An unpleasant feeling, and I surface from each reading session as if waking from a disturbed sleep.

Ruth:

I know exactly what you mean about the disturbed feeling when reading this - it did haunt me and make me uncomfortable, yet I kept reading.

Yulia:

I think the nod to Poe is a good one - I often wonder what literary horror would be set in modern times.

I lived in Manhattan right after graduating college from 1990 - 2000 and there were times when I did odd jobs (think dog-walking, not Mr. Morning) and so there was a lot about Iris and her surroundings that felt familiar to me, but again off, in that same bad dream way.

I kept picturing Mr. Morning as Wallace Shawn the actor for some strange reason.

That first section was made even more interesting in the context of the whole novel.

SPOILER ALERT*************


I felt like Mr. Morning was the dawn or beginning of her descent into madness/hell. Her use of an alias with him was a simple dipping of the toe into cold water. The fact that she gave him her real number and real bio and real first name allowed her just to try on a piece of a fake identity. also, given her gender bending antics later, I thought is was interesting that "david"sen was used.

I also wondered about the name of the main character - Iris - as in the iris of your eye - that which regulates the amount of light that enters your eye. This seems significant in terms of migraines and the way the light in her world changed so much over the course of her experiences, starting with Mr. morning.

These days with the Internet, aliases are much more comfortable and common for folks, so I think it is important to consider the time of the novel, pre-mainstream Internet. Even the use of the tape recorder as a tool helps establish that time frame well.

I kept expecting there to be another connection to Mr. morning and the girl in later sections, but I don't recall any at this point.

The cottonball was very creepy to me - where did it come from? what was on it? It was terrific how much suspense was conveyed through such a simple object.

I did like a lot what Mr. Morning said about aliases and how certain names went with certain articles - I think that is definitely true and again goes back to the theme of perception and distortion that someone earlier pointed as a constant theme in this novel (I think it might have been Misty).

At one point Mr. Morning talks about "an awakening": "I mean that the objects in question begin to stir under scrutiny, that they, mute as they are, can nevertheless bear witness to human mysteries."

Isn't this exactly what happens with the story and the suit when Iris becomes Klaus or even earlier with the photographs?

How objects change under scrutiny depends on the mindset you're in when you're observing the object, I think. But there's also probably a reaction curve that may happen: where the object takes on an intensity of meaning before being overwhelmed by details and loses all meaning.

In college, I had an internship describing microscopic Central American seeds in minute detail for an atlas, and I can verify that it did drive me rather batty to put so much attention and find just the right words for something so mundane. Actually, the seeds had many more identifying characteristics than the objects Iris described, so I can see how it unsettled her. But like Iris, I never thought to consider the odor of the seeds. I still forget to use my sense of smell for the most part. Perhaps it's a natural result of living in the city.

I hadn't thought of it before Al's comment, but it's true that Mr. Morning's fruitless approach to uncovering a mystery seems ridiculous and pathetic (in the original meaning of the word) when compared to the transformations that took place with George's photograph of Iris and the suit Iris wore. No, the photograph and suit alone didn't have this power, but in the right hands, with enough shadow and ambiguity in the former case and the right mood in the latter, they did take on a power that bordered on mystical.

As for the objects in the boxes, even though this was my second time reading this, I kept on expecting the objects he salvaged to be more special, like earrings or photographs. It's creepy to think of a cotton ball receiving such respect and awe. I can't imagine it had any connection to the murder, or it'd have had blood on it, so my only guess is that it was from her waste bin and was used to remove makeup. No, nothing exciting, but I think that's why his treasures were so ridiculous, desperate, and eerie.

The girl's mirror reminded me of how I used to be freaked out at night by a mirror in my bedroom, a large unadorned rectangle leaning against the wall. We'd moved into the house months after a woman who'd spent her entire life there had passed away, and I was certain she looked at me through that mirror (I was 11 at the time). If anything, I was surprised Iris wasn't more scared by the mirror and didn't smash it, considering her state of mind during that episode.

As for Ruth's comment, it doesn't bother me when a short story evolves into a book. Some of my favorite books (as the one we'll be reading soon by Murakami) started as short stories. The question to ask later is how well Hustvedt integrates the various components of the book, whether it ends up being too fragmented a style or whether it works considering Iris's fragmented state of mind. It is a first novel, and her later works are more conventional in their styling, but I have to say I liked how we only learned later the exact time-line of the various episodes of the story.

Yulia, I'm sorry but I don't think I can read this book. From the beginning, it has a creepy, disturbing vibe and I can't get into it. It's too dissonant with the other books that I'm reading right now. I'm sure there is some good stuff there but I don't think it's for me right now.

I thought that the nonlinear fragmentation of time worked extremely well in this book. She's an excellent writer and the descriptions of the neurological chaos of a migraine were superb. I've had migraines since 1973 as well as other neurological upheavals, and I have long since concluded that no one but a poet can describe them.

Like Happy and Ruth, I found this book to be very disturbing, but I did finish it. Yulia, you mentioned the possible autobiographical connection, and that really sent chills down my spine. It was like being trapped in a maze of fun house mirrors, unable to find the door. If this was a fictionalized version of Hustvedt's own tumble into altered perceptions, I'm glad that she resurfaced to write about the experience.

I'm not bothered by a series of linked short stories that form a novel, Yulia. I just observed that it seemed that way with this book. Each of those sections could have stood alone. And I know that the first one was published as a short story.

Agree, Wilhelmina. I used to get migraines, and altho they were only a fraction as bad as those Iris had, they were bad enough so that I understood full well how well she portrayed them.

It is indeed an excellent portrayal of someone almost lost to madness. And she nearly dragged me with her.

Another question to throw out: Was it exploitative of George to take a photo of the woman suffering from the epileptic fit? People in war zones do it all the time: capture suffering, degradation, and helplessness. Was George's act different in any way from the photos we're so used to seeing in the papers and online? And do photographs lie, as Iris claims? Or are they simply one perspective on the truth?

I'm so sorry to hear that you've both suffered from migraines, Mina and Ruth. I had no first-hand experience to gauge how well Hustvedt described the experience, but know from others how crippling and immobilizing a condition it can be.

You ask a very interesting question, Yulia. As a photographer, I know it would be hard for me to take a picture of someone in distress, when the first thing I would think of would be to try to help that person. But sometimes I know that pictures of war, or distress can help with combating war. This picture was not used as such, though. It was a purely selfish act, I think. (And I have to admit that when I was reading that section, I was thinking about release forms and such that photographers generally have to have when they use photos of people.) I also couldn't imagine the picture of Iris that would be that mystical and revealing.

Photos do lie, Yulia, or they can be made to manipulate. Not always with what is IN a picture, but what is left OUT. Context can be eliminated. And sometimes the context is where the truth is.

Sherry, I was also screaming, "you don't have a release form!" (I have had my picture taken and been filmed as a person living with my stupid illness, and I have signed more releases than I can count.) I agree with you that this was purely selfish, and I don't agree with the often-used excuse that everything is permissible for the sake of art. That photographer was invasive and brutal and, in my opinion, misogynistic. I don't think that he intended for the picture to be mystical or revealing, he wanted to objectify and dismember her. And this is what he calls love? As Tina Turner would say, "What's love got to do with it?"

Yulia, I second Sherry's comment - your questions are thought-provoking and challenging.

Me three on the release form. I've known of painters being sued for paintings based on photos.

Was there anybody is this book who didn't have a few crooked seams?

Regarding Ruth's question of whether anyone doesn't have a few crooked seams in this book, only one character comes to mind: Iris's friend Ruth, the one who loans her the suit. But then, Iris admits to hating the mundane and predictable (p. 81), so it's no surprise Ruth is such a marginal character in the book. Or is the question really, not who's normal, but which of these characters are decent individuals despite all their flaws?

I hadn't known about release forms in the context of photography, but that does make clear how George's photo of the girl on the street was inexcusable and perhaps even cruel. But then, voyeurs rarely ask for permission, right?

In light of how well Hustvedt described the man in the painting discussed at the dinner party, the one watching the bucolic woman breast-feeding her child (p. 150), enabling the reader to visualize it as if there were a copy in the book, and how adept she generally is at describing artworks both in her other novels and her essays, it's interesting that Hustvedt seemed to have difficulty capturing the essence of photograph George took of Iris.

I do have an image in mind of Iris's looking very androgynous and the image making it seem, through her leering smile, as if she enjoyed the confusion she causes (however unintentionally), but Hustvedt does create a curious ambiguity regarding the image and I'm still trying to figure out whether this was her intent. Was it?

Still, I liked the idea of George and Stephen's being drawn more to the photo of Iris than to the person in front of them. I think it's an accurate portrayal of a lot of attractions: how people can end up loving their distorted image or pieces of someone, but not the entire person, and how they can cling to those pieces and false images at the cost of reality. No, I don't think of this kind of attraction as healthy, but it does remind me of a lot of experiences I've had or witnessed.

It was odd how all the male characters professed love for Iris, yet I couldn't understand their feelings for her as the love I've come to understand. Mina brought up this concern as well: Is the term love overused by these guys? Can it still be called love if it's unhealthy, skewed, fragmented, or manipulative?

Yulia:

I'm glad for your sake that you clearly have not met any of ex-boyfriends still living in New York!

Yes there are plenty of men for whom love is "unhealthy, skewed, fragmented or manupulative." And frankly I know plenty of women who fit that bill too.

It is interesting to think about what exactly the photo of Iris looked like. I am sure it looked very different to different people. Often if you know someone personally that does impact how you "see" a photo. but I agree that photos can be manipulated and taking a picture of someone having a seizure is definitely unethical.

As for the description of the painting, I thought that was a great section of the book. I know I have personally fixated on paintings I have seen in museums and remember them a certain way and then I am often surprised to see them again in the same museum and they are so different from my memory.

I'm familiar with Georgione's The Tempest, used to teach about it in my Art History course.

It's a curious painting, and scholars have been arguing about the themes/symbols present in it for years.Xrays have shown that there was originally another nude woman where the man is standing. Nobody really knows what's going on.

It's generally credited with being the first true landscape painting in Western European art history.

I'm curious as to the significance of the painting in the story. Any ideas?

Here's the picture:

Maybe it could have something to do with the voyeuristic possibilities in the picture. The man is looking at the woman, and the woman is looking at us look at her. (What I don't understand is, why did she have to take off her skirt to nurse the baby. I usually just popped my kid under my blouse. But I'm getting off-topic.)

Iris totally forgot the man was there, and "became" the man. Which is what she did in the other section.

I totally agree with Sherry - the description and painting were significant because Iris "became" the man, remembering every detail yet completely leaving him out.

(And off-topic, yes, breastfeeding does not require one to be topless :) They even make these expensive breast feeding shawls now for women to drape over themselves and their child - marketers know new moms can be suckers when it comes to buying stuff for their kids!!)

But back to the book, on the page where Paris sends Iris a picture of the painting she has a curious reaction:

"I looked at him for a long time. He wasn't familiar to me. It was like seeing him for the first time, and yet everything else was just as I had remembered it. But where had he disappeared to? How many others are there? I thought. People, things, seen and forgotten, leaving nothing behind them, not even the knowledge that they're missing."

This passage seems to fit in more with the overall stories - Mr. Morning trying to recreate that girl from his building, Mrs. O in the hospital, the photo of Iris, Klaus, etc.

Thanks Sherry, I meant to post the picture, but forgot. However, your image isn't coming through for me. I get the dreaded red X. Let me try and see if this works better.

[image error]

I never questioned the woman in the painting's toplessness: doesn't our surprise at it have more to do with our modern standards of propriety and our crowded living confines and social mores, rather than the circumstances in which she was in, a rather secluded area, alone for all she knew.

Oddly, I never even looked into whether the painting was authentic, as Iris was writing her paper on "fictions within fiction" and Hustvedt has voyeurs depicted watching women pose in paintings in her later novel, What I Loved. I suppose, then, the paper topic was largely a forecasting of her later Klaus episode.

I wonder, besides being an early landscape work, is this also an early example of depicting voyeurs? Ruth and Sherry, do any other early paintings come to mind that depict people watching? Has this always been a common theme in art?

Al, the quote you mentioned did stir me greatly when I read it, but my otherwise meticulous notes on the book only read, "people being forgotten" and, when I looked back on that note, I had no idea what it referred to.

"People, things, seen and forgotten, leaving nothing behind them, not even the knowledge that they're missing." I think that's also a deep preoccupation of mine since I won't be having children and live a very introverted life. It's a frightening thought, being erased.

I think everyone can be frightened by that thought.

As for art and voyeurism - I think there is a deeply rooted connection there. More with photography than painting, as most painters couldn't just sneak up with their materials and tools and capture a moment. But a lot of early photography has that voyeuristic element, even when pictures may have been posed. I am thinking especially of some Walker Evans shots and also the famous photographer who lived and worked in Storyville New Orleans - I can't think of his name at the moment.

Yulia: Since you've read Hustvedt's other works - do you think this book was more disturbing or on par with the other ones?

E J Bellocq is the photographer from Storyville

Topless for nursing, maybe, but bottomless? Her shoulders are (needlessly) covered, but her bottom half is bare. No woman would ever paint a nursing mother in this manner.

Speaking of women, you're right, Yulia, it is interesting that Iris' one female friend, Ruth, is the only person in Iris' life who isn't pretty twisted, and she is depicted as mundane and predictable. While reading, I kept thinking that Iris really needed a few well-grounded women friends to help her avoid all of the unhealthy situations in which she was involved. But of course, Iris is clearly attracted to edgy situations with men of dubious character. She even becomes one (and I agree that she replaces the voyeur in the painting in her memory). I then began to wonder about Hustvedt and whether she herself views most women as less interesting than men.

There's a wonderful book of poetry entitled "Bellocq's Ophelia" by Natasha D. Trethewey about those pictures. I'll try to put one in the poetry discussion section.

What a fabulous convergence, poems about a photographer that came to mind from a discussion on a book discussing about a painting.

Hustvedt does tend to be drawn to haunting subjects in all her works. Her third novel, What I Loved, focuses on the cryptic connections made in the art world, and her narrator is actually an old Jewish man. From my female, non-Jewish, non-cross-dressing perspective, i thought she pulled it off very well. But I should warn you, some believe the book should come with a warning label for parents. No molestation or abuse, but a warning nonetheless for sensitive readers.

Al, it is interesting to consider whether Hustvedt finds men more interesting than women. Certainly she questions strict gender roles, which I have no problem with, but I do have a problem with anyone's implicitly making broad statements about women being predictable and boring, and men being exciting, thought-provoking, and dangerous. The feminist in me is repelled by that message.

I feel the same, Yulia, yet I suspect we've all met women who do disdain women's company and conversation. That's one of the many attitudes I had hoped would be extinct by now.

Voyeurs in art? You mean besides the artists themselves, I suppose. A lot of them have had fun with the story of Susannah and the Elders.

As for the man in the Giorgione. I find it interesting that first there was a woman where he's standing, and Giorgione painted the man over it. I don't think that was mentioned in the book, was it?

At any rate, I'm tempted to relate that to Iris's attempt to morph herself into a man.

No, the detail of the erased woman wasn't mentioned at the dinner party or elsewhere in the book, but I'm surprised it wasn't (now that I know the true story of the painting), as it relates so well to the notion of Iris's erasing herself to be a man.

Ruth:

That is fascinating tidbit about the Giorgione painting. Given, Hustvedt's extensive art knowledge I am guessing she knew that too and included it for exactly the reasons you suggest.

Doesn't Paris suggest that himself at dinner (that iris has taken the perspective and role of the man voyeur)?

On the subject of who is screwy in this book and who decent, was Iris "using" Paris as he professes at the end? Was he using her? Or did it simply go both ways?

And is Klaus evil? What do people think of Professor Rose's morality?

Another decent person came to mind just now: Mrs. O's husband, who visited her every day in the hospital. A very sad figure.

I finished just this moment but couldn't put off coming to check out the discussion. What an intriguing book. I haven't processed my thoughts yet so I don't know if I have anything new to add. Yulia, thanks for all of the wonderful ideas and information. And Ruth that's such an interesting fact about the second nude woman in the Giorgione painting being painted over with a fully dressed male onlooker. That info is certainly not in the book. I wasn't familiar with the painting, and now, having seen it, the scene at dinner where Paris grills Iris strikes me as even creepier and more intense.

You know, I simply didn't get the feeling that Iris disdained women or the company of women. Perhaps she herself experienced gender confusion or curiosity but that doesn't translate to sexism. Upon entering grad school, she befriends Ruth but quickly loses her to "the Cohen boy." The make-up of Professor Rose's seminar is, I believe, primarily male. Maybe this indicates that the grad class overall is mostly male? And, you know, I truly believe she did "befriend" Mrs. O. in some way. That might be putting it strongly (or, when you consider their embrace, mildly) but the two connect at a very deep level. All I can think is that Iris may be a bit unhinged from early on. A beautiful woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown is likely to attract very few female friends and all too many men who think they themselves are the answer.

I've enjoyed reading the comments on the book very much, thank you to everyone!

The theme of Iris becoming Klaus in part by putting on the suit, and not wanting to clean the suit, struck me as well. It comports with a long-standing literary notion of changing one's identity or at least one's status by stripping and adopting new dress. Transvestism is a frequent trope of ancient literature, such as in The Bacchae or even some early Christian texts. This is a favorite theme of early baptismal imagery, for example, putting off the old person and putting on (and thus becoming) the new.

I agree with those who found it satisfying to have the chronological sequencing become clear only towards the end of the book.

Some of the strongest writing, I thought (and also some of the more uncomfortable narration) was in the section where Prof. Rose carried Iris up the stairs into her apartment for sex, just before they break up.

Jen:

I think that is a great point about how Ruth goes off with her boyfriend after befriending Iris. And I agree that an unhinged woman is far more likely to attract male suitors than normal and supportive "girl" friends.

I think the relationship between Paris and Iris is complicated, but I didn't think either one was "using" the other. Remember, Paris knows a lot more about Iris than vice-versa. My sense is that Paris is based on someone the author knows - although I can't tell you why exactly.

Philip, it's true, the scene where Iris was walking home blindfolded was very tense. It made me nervous. I kept on fearing she'd trip, even though I knew she wouldn't. I wondered, how far could I go on a city block I knew without seeing anything or having a cane to watch my step? Not more than a few steps, I'm afraid. I'd sink to my feet in terror.

But the actual scene in her apartment I found less effective (or was it purposefully pathetic?). I didn't fear Prof. Rose. I didn't find him dangerous in the least. Were we meant to? Nor could I imagine a silk scarf would remove all her perception of light, no matter how many times it was folded over. I suppose this says more about my own lack of boundaries than anything else, but Rose to me was not the awful man he believed himself to be. He just wanted to get out of his safe, humdrum life; he wanted to see if he could feel dangerous, if he could be a dominant sexual presence. And since he was aging and was no longer attractive, I can empathize with his curiosity. He failed for me because he was so frightened of himself; he failed for Iris because he did frighten her and make her question his morality.

Back to the autobiographical nature of the book, this is what Hustvedt aid in an interview on identitytheory.com:

"In The Blindfold I explore—it came out of a little experience that I had—I left that experience with a feeling of the uncanny. And that book tried to treat some of the ambiguities of that feeling. So it was quite specific. That is not love, loss, grief. That is some very specific avenue of human experience that fascinated me. Also power relations in that book were very important and the experience of being feminine and vulnerable [. . .]"

I can only guess which experience that is.

I think her experiment in being Klaus wasn't so much a gender identity thing, but a "hiding in plain sight" thing. As a man, she could be the voyeur--to life. She could go to places she wouldn't go as a woman, she could see people without them knowing she was a woman. She was taking herself outside of the context of her life, and seeing what the world was like without her in it. That must be a very powerful experience.

Fascinating discussions here. I especially enjoyed the information and theories surrounding the painting. It does seem as though Iris herself became the watching man, and that's why she forgot him completely.
I agree that being Klaus gave Iris a chance to explore avenues of life that she couldn't safely explore as a woman. However, I really hated how she came to the edge of violence. Talk about creepy!
Iris seemed to me to be so very confused about herself and her place in the world...or indeed anyone's place in the world. Apparently for her, existence is a tenuous thing. I guess that would go some way to explainging her mental difficulties.
On the whole, I think Hustvedt did an excellent job of writing this book. It made me uncomfortable, and even scared (not in the monster-scary way, but scared inside and about myself), but that's powerful writing. A good choice!

It's interesting that Hustvert talks about "the experience of being feminine and vulnerable". Iris deliberately places herself in so many situations in which she is very vulnerable. Perhaps she (Iris/Hustvert) is exploring that vulnerability by confronting it head on.

On the subject of feminine vulnerability, there can be benefits to looking vulnerable, as odd as that may sound. One day in college, I thought, Screw it, I want to try a new androgynous look, and I wore loose trousers and a men's sweater (no hat to hide my hair, but I did put it back as always). But when going back home, I had difficulty walking as usual (before the days of my wheelchair) and absolutely no cars or people on the street stopped to help me or ask how I was (no one!), as they always did when I wore camisoles, skirts, and dresses. Of course this isn't a good message about society: people are drawn to help the vulnerable female, but it did teach me the benefits of emphasizing I was anything but hardy. Yes, a very depressing lesson.

Not to be a nudge, but no one's answered yet: is it OK to be rough with animals as a child or is it a sign of a deeper sickness that will only mature and worsen with age? Can anyone imagine someone healthy of any age trying to strangle a defenseless cat (whether you like cats or not)?

What is your favorite and least favorite story? I thought it started out great with the Mr. Morning story. It was very creepy. It even got me to look at objects in my house and write about them the way Iris did. It was very interesting. I did not like the last story of Michael and Paris and I think that hurt the book for me. I did not feel the realtionship between Iris and Michael ever felt real to me. Also I did not like Iris and did not have any empathy for her. Any thoughts?

David

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Yulia, my theory about childhood cruelty to animals is that it's not necessarily proof that the adult will be a sociopath, but it is a warning. I remember as a child, some older boy cousins were being very mean to a kitten (stringing her up with a rope), and I was furious and yelled and screamed at them. I think I told on them (I didn't like them very much anyway). Those boys didn't grow up to be Einsteins, but they weren't Klauses either. I think some children just go along with leaders, but wouldn't have instigated the cruelty, some boys are just mean and will probably remain mean their whole lives.

I just noticed I said "boys" as if this phenomenon never occurs with girls. I have never heard of a girl doing stuff like that, but I could certainly be wrong.

Yulia, my opinion is that it's never okay to be rough with animals or, indeed, with anything weaker than oneself. First lessons in our childhood and passed on to the next generation included careful explanations of how to treat animals and smaller humans. Mistakes were corrected immediately, and with quite an emphasis. That part of the book bothered me, but it I could see how it tied in with the photograph of the girl having a seizure, which struck me as being abusive. (I mean the photo, not the seizure.) On the other hand, lots of people have pretty weird thoughts, usually involving other people, that they never act on.

David, my least favorite part of the book involved her taking on the persona of Klaus. I lost a lot of sympathy with her there. I liked the part about the hospital best, but the story of Mr. Morning sure drew me into the book very quickly.

I connected most with the section that takes place in the hospital, although I don't know if "favorite" is the word I would use. That is the section in which I had the most empathy for Iris. For me, she wasn't a very likable character, just a very disturbed one.

It is never, never, NEVER OK to mistreat the vulnerable, whether animal or human. I agree with Gail that this is behavior that you immediately and emphatically correct in children. I do think that finding actual pleasure in hurting a living being is a very bad sign for future mental health.

I didn't feel connected to any of the sections. That's part of the feeling this book gave me, a weird, dreamlike feeling, unconnected to what was happening on the page, yet unable to break away.

Gail, certainly it's too complicated to consider thought crimes. Sure, everyone has dark thoughts sometimes. ("I wish she'd just kill herself," and so on.) I do wonder, though, if there's a fine line between thought crimes and thoughts that are voiced to others but not executed, like people who joke about the torture of children, animals, or other adults with a straight face, even if they wouldn't do it in real life. No, these people aren't criminals, but they do have very deep-seated anger issues they have to confront or they swallow down with alcohol (as the person I'm thinking of does). That's a bit off the topic.

I knew what I thought about children and cruelty to animals (exactly what Gail and Mina expressed), but then I remembered a science project I did in the second grade about the effect of water pollution on fish. Sure, I did it to prove pollution is bad and I did learn my lesson and have been a loving and *responsible* pet owner since. I know empathy kicks in at some point in childhood, but at what age? Or is it something that is natural but must be taught, like the ability to read?

Either way, I don't think Klaus did his "experiment" to study the dangers of strangulation on wounded cats. Sherry is right: not every kid who does awful things ends up being a psychopath. Nor does every psychopath, for that matter, do awful things. Many, in fact, are highly functioning. But that's another issue altogether.

As for the section in the hospital, like Mina, I can't say I "enjoyed" it though I certainly identified with it. But these aren't exactly pleasant memories, so it's nothing great to revisit. What surprised me most was that there were four beds in the room, which I'd never had (it's certainly got to do with which neighborhood of NY your hospital is in). Also, how dare her school insurance only cover 80%. That infuriated me. I wouldn't have eaten the bill, but I wouldn't have paid, either.

I finished this book several days ago and have been trying to sort out exactly what my feelings about it are. I can't say it's a book I enjoyed reading, but it was one I had a hard time putting down. Iris fascinated me and I felt as if she were leading me down a secluded path, as if in one of those garden mazes where the "walls" are made of very high, dense hedges so you can't see very far in front of you or behind you at any given time. I had no idea where we were headed, but I trusted that she was leading me to some specific conclusion or special nugget of knowledge, that it was all leading up to some grand ending where all the loose ends would tie up neatly.

I'm not really an abstract thinker and I like things to have a beginning, middle and end; the fact that the story was not told chronologically bothered me and I was disappointed to find that, at the end of all the pathos, there was no real identifiable "point" to it all.

I felt that Iris was a character whose "normal" life was lived very close to the edge of madness and this description of how she is not actually pushed over the edge by any specific event, but finds herself slowly and gradually slipping over the edge, testing the waters and then venturing a bit further was compelling for me, but very disconcerting.

While reading the story, I was alternately excited, disturbed, fascinated, disgusted and sometimes just creeped out, which I think might have been the author's goal; perhaps this is just what Iris was thinking, too, and the author wants the reader to experience those same emotions.

Although at the end of the story, I was disappointed at not having some tidy conclusion, after a time of thinking about it, I was very glad that Iris, in the end, "ran like hell". It gave me hope that she was turning her back on the madness and intended to firmly establish herself back on the side of sanity. I actually found the ending made me feel hopeful; did anyone else have this sense?