Fordy ShoorFinal Paper

ENG190

Family Planning:The Role of Caregiver in The Handmaid’s Tale and Never Let Me Go

The late 19th Century saw a great shift in social ideologies, with numerous proponents

citing modern industrial practice as detriments to social equality. “On what foundation is the

present family, the bourgeois family, based?” ask Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels in The

Communist Manifesto, “on capital, on private gain. In its completely developed form this family

exists only among the bourgeoisie. But this state of things finds its complement in the practical

absence of the family among the proletarians, and in public prostitution” (87-8). The Bourgeoisie

family structure, as Marx saw it, was another mode of subjugation, a hierarchy wherein one

benefits from the toil of another. Marx sought to do away with family altogether. There seemed a

strong correlation; “…the more, by the action of modern industry, all family ties among the

proletarians are torn asunder, and their children transformed into simple articles of commerce”

(88-9). Marx’s writings inspired several collectivist movements throughout the era, many

focusing on family relations as improving under collectivism. The “abolition not of the natural

family but of the legal family” was advocated under Mikhail Bakunin’s Anarchist ideology”,

reflecting the value of state “parenting”, noting “it is true that parents are their natural tutors, but

the commune must be the tutor” (Bakunin 93-4).

The Gilded Age in Western society saw a great deal of capital concentrate within the

Bourgeois family and social inequality grew greater. Offred’s description of the Commander’s

Mansion in The Handmaid’s Tale expresses the solidified quality of bourgeois legacy: “The

sitting room is subdued, symmetrical; it’s one of the shapes money takes when it freezes. Money

has trickled through this room for years and years, as if through an underground cavern, crusting

and hardening like stalactites into these forms” (79). The permanence of capitalism in Western

society couldn’t be denied. As an institution, Max Weber saw capitalism as inherently linked by

deeper, more personal ties, namely religion and kinship ties. He cites concepts such as the

Protestant work ethic and “rational accounting” as solidifying bourgeois family legacy. All the

while, dwindling middle class “parents wind up overworking themselves to make money to give

children a better life” cites Neo-Marxist Duncan Foley, “all the while depriving the children of

the direct comfort and love they crave and substituting alienating gifts of money and

commodities for direct human company” (Foley 111). A pervasive problem, the breakdown of

the family structure proved a growing concern throughout 20th century western society as divorce

rates and single parenting grew.

Other societies responded by attempting to take the advice of Marx and Bakunin,

adopting forms of collectivism in an attempt to reassert social order and equality. However,

family becomes one of the few social orders that a system finds difficulty managing. Not only do

mothers and fathers create children, but also they also genetically form them, raise them, provide

for them, and instruct them. It proves unlikely that any ideology would reach children before

their parents, their “flesh and blood”. From an evolutionary standpoint, the protection and

warmth of a family can retain a type of dedication that defies logic; to a state, this could become

a valuable asset, especially since, under communism, families are already under state authority.

Perhaps this is why authoritarian seizure of the family structure is a common tactic of inter-

generational control. It offers a particular spiritual and hierarchical control closer to mankind

than any system can, evoking ancient links between state and family. Dystopian “nightmare

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societies are kept at infantile dependence on the state embodied by…the archetype of the

benevolent Wise Man ultimately that of the Terrible Father” (Gottlieb 275)

Country had often been referred to as “mother”, its citizens as “brothers” and Monarchy

offered an inherent patriarchal structure. Modern authoritarian systems attempted to recall these

ties. In “Left Wing Communism, An Infantile Disorder, an early pamphlet by V.I. Lenin,

authoritarianism plays a less than subtle role in the development of the USSR. He pushes a

hierarchical logic, noting how other forms of communism are “childish”, literally young and

misguided, implying non-state Communism as not only subordinate to Bolshevism, but as being

easier to “correct” (Lenin 75). Besides a divide and conquer strategy, Lenin’s language evokes a

paternalist ideal, the notion that social identity is best left in the hands of a central “older”

authority. Joseph Stalin was seen as an “Uncle”, “a tsar…needed for reverence…to live and

work for”, that could be “wise, calm, anything but a bloodthirsty leader” (Radzinsky 333). Adolf

Hitler went so far as to target youth directly (Kershaw 441), his “image of ‘fatherliness’

concealing inner emptiness” (281). His Hitler Youth, (408) his “boy scouts” sought to have more

control in shaping youth than their parents; the planned eugenics program was perhaps the most

notorious. In current East-Asian dictatorships, Malthusian techniques are often employed to

control the sizes of not only population, but individual families as well.

From the individualist Western viewpoint, these practices seem horrific distortions of

well meaning ideologies. Instead of altering ideology, systems attempt to alter the components

(citizens) that make it up. They represent twisted ideologies of authoritarianism. Early Dystopian

literature presented these practices as an absurd paradox; if the ideology was sound, it should

theoretically work for people as they are. As the modern era progressed, the continued radical

actions of dictatorships sparked equally radical reactions. It’s within this post-war atmosphere of

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protective individualism and Western radicalism that The Handmaid’s Tale and Never Let Me

Go posit themselves. On the Left, modern feminism cited deeper institutional forms of

oppression within Western society, reflecting Marxism’s assertion that “the bourgeois sees in his

wife a mere instrument of production” (Marx and Engels 89). Margaret Atwood reflects Neo-

Marxist feminism, a movement that grew more radical throughout the 1970’s, through Offred’s

mother, whom Offred herself had reacted against as a young woman. Her mother “explained

mistress, she did not believe in mystification” (145), encouraging non-Patriarchal education,

despite the potentially “mystifying” quality of ideological instruction. Atwood juxtaposes actual

radical feminist tactics—the burning of pornographic material (38)—with exaggerated ones—the

“bonfire in times square” and public shaming of fashion designers (230) to illustrate the

acceleration of radicalism as a reaction to modernism. Atwood recognizes the danger of radical

neo-Marxist feminism, Offred telling Moira “there was more than one way of living with your

head in the sand…you couldn’t just ignore men” (172). Indeed, Offred becoming Luke and the

Commander’s “mistress” (“instead, I am his”), however voluntary on Offred’s part, reinforces

the dominant, possessive nature of Paternalism (182).

Another dominant radical ideology of the 20th Century is that of Free-Market Capitalism.

Atwood reflects the dehumanizing qualities of the “professional” life in describing Offred’s

previous workplace (172). She implies, much like Marx, that working conditions in the 1980’s

were such that they destabilized personal and family relationships, leading to Offred’s affair with

Luke. In Never Let Me Go, Miss Emily reflects the trajectory of industry “in the early fifties,

when the great breakthroughs in science followed one after the other, there wasn’t time to take

stock, to ask sensible questions” (Ishiguro 262). As science and industry broke new ground, “the

pervasive implications of [biotechnological] change, especially if rapidly achieved, are difficult

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to overstate: the structures of work, of families, of economics, of social status, of electoral

politics, and of reproduction are all up for grabs” (Allenby and Sarewitz 82). The type of elite

centralization Marx and Weber predicated grew as Capitalism instituted more complex

machinery such as credit and digital technology. It is as a result of these economic developments

that all women in The Handmaid’s Tale were left “up for grabs”, with Offred later reflecting how

the central government was able to singlehandedly usurp every female citizen’s assets (Atwood

174). Atwood and Ishiguro both reflect Western “ambivalence about the commodity form of

production [that] lies at the root of the fierce public debates about issues like the financing of

medical care the legalization of surrogate parenting for money, the sale of body parts, and the

acceptability of creating a market for adopted children (Foley 103)

On the right, the pressure for social preservation was ever more present, especially since

the Western right’s adoption of liberal free-market practices. Perhaps this is why 20th and 21st

Century conservative ideology saw a resurgence of Religion as the primary form of social order.

In the West, particularly America, the 1980s saw a resurgence Radicalism; Neo-Conservatism

blended with Christian Fundamentalism to form the Religious right, promoting a strong social

platform of hierarchal “family values” and sexual abstinence. M. Keith Booker suggests,

“religious fundamentalism has always been prevalent in American culture” (166). Promoting

similar radical tactics, the Neo-Marxist Feminists and Religious Right both championed

censorship to combat pornography (38), as hauntingly illustrated in Handmaid’s Tale. Offred’s

memory of Serena Joy on television, blonde hair, eyeliner, crying and singing, is highly

reminiscent of numerous 80’s televangelists, particularly Tammy Fay Bakker (45). Her husband,

the Commander—perhaps modeled on Jim Bakker or Jimmy Swaggart—reflects the prevailing

Radical Conservative view of single women as ““objects not in use” (69), justifying their

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dystopian regime (230) as “protecting” women so “they can fulfill their biological destinies in

peace” (219). Ironically, the Gileadians, similar to the Religious Right, see their solution as

solving the very familial deconstruction Marx derides.

Theocratic Radicalism existed most fully in Middle Eastern countries, with Atwood

evoking in Handmaid’s Tale, Iran under the command of Sharia Law. “They blamed [the

assassination] on Islamic fanatics, at the time” (Atwood 174), she notes, reflecting an all too

prophetic fear. Functioning under a radically altered form of Islam, Iran and other current

dictatorships assert an extreme amount of control over women and the family. Iranian culture

values “the twin ideals of a just, charismatic monarchy and a rigid social order that are viewed as

necessary for human prosperity and national survival” (Daniel and Mahdī 14). As Booker

suggests, these practices are not new to the West. Indeed, we see how both the West and Islam

“share a patriarchal structure that undergoes change as a result of economic and political

development.” The conservative structure of these family units tends to be attributable to two

developments: “(1) the erosion of classic patriarchy and the extended household unit and, (2) the

rise of middle-class movements, mainly Islamist, that evince values and reminiscent of the moral

discourse of the European bourgeoisie” (Moghadam 118). Atwood directly references this,

noting how “the marriages are, of course, arranged” (219), with women adorned “modest

apparel” (221) and robes. Author Erika Gottlieb emphasizes the influence of Ayatollah’s Iran

(Gottlieb 105) on Atwood’s vision. With Gilead, Atwood takes utilizes the practices of Sharia

Law with the ideology of the Religious Right, illustrating the predominant irony of Dystopian

novels, that of ideological retardation for the sake of stability.

Written at the turn of the 21st Century, both The Handmaid’s Tale and Never Let Me Go

show a ubiquitous fear of industry not excessively ordering, but excessively destabilizing

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society. Gottlieb suggests that “…modern dystopias are addressed primarily to the Western

reader; their most specific aim is to explore the social-political pathologies of capitalism in the

context of Great Britain and North America” (Gottlieb 10), a notion Mohr supports (Mohr 239).

The 1960’s social revolution saw a cultural shift in views of sex, from being procreative and

kinship motivated and more sensually motivated; it became an act of personal freedom.

Postmodern thinkers began to see sex itself became something of a social leverage. “We have the

stats from that time” the Commander recollects to Offred, “You know what men were

complaining about the most? Inability to feel. Men were turning off on sex, even. They were

turning off on marriage” (210). The following decades in America saw steady rises in divorce

rates, perhaps influenced by extramarital affairs such as Luke and Offred's (51-2). Atwood

reflects back in several sections upon sex, as a result of more freedom, having lost both meaning

and value (219), (304); further, she does suggest it lead to the breakdown of families. Underneath

it all is the notion that Offred, in pre-Gilead times, was making conscious decisions that,

unawares to her, resulted in her self-imprisonment. Ishiguro makes a similar reflection with the

function of deferrals and art, individual assertions of power in Never Let Me Go. “When

divorced from a structural understanding, of an exploitative social order, individuality can

become a cult object, a substitute for critical thinking and an impediment to overcoming

injustice. In ‘democratic’ mass-consumption societies individuality is the dominant form of

ideology, the chief way in which subjects are interpellated” (Fraser 4).

In the 21st century, ecological or unforeseen disasters are a large fear; it’s under these

conditions people have seen the voluntary suspension of larger human orders in favor of

survival. Perhaps the most influential social order upon the individual is that of one’s family or

caregivers. “After the October Revolution in Russia, [family] became a major theme in Soviet

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utopian fiction and drama…the family came to be seen more and more in terms of the division of

loyalty…between the individual and revolutionary society” (Theiss 40). Atwood and Ishiguro

suggest that familial bonds, if usurped by a dystopian structure, can be their most effective tools

of management.

Atwood illustrates the sense of devotion that a child/caregiver relationship can engender.

Offred’s main concerns are linked to losing her daughter (“Of all the dreams, this is the worst”

(75)) and her own mother ((“I’ve mourned for her already. But I will do it again, and again”

(253)). The cyclical nature of her language recalls a sense of legacy, which she later directly

describes as “just passing the buck, as children do, to mothers” (253). She recalls both her child

and mother with the greatest degree of kinship (285), (310), certainly more than Luke. Though,

it’s Offred’s strong dependence upon her mother as a source of moral validation that subtly

illustrates the power of childhood attachment. In this way, perhaps most importantly, Atwood

shows the nature of parenting as enforcing hierarchal values, a key value for social conditioning.

To both Offred and the children of Hailsham, their sense of identity is conveyed as being, in

some way or another, heavily shaped by their “caregivers”. This concept of legacy allows a

caregiver to shape a child’s perception of “life before” the current order. Offred shows the

malleability of her perception as a child, regarding Auscwitz ovens: “…I got the confused notion

these deaths had taken place in kitchens” (145), a clever analogy to the death of women’s lib as a

return to the kitchen. History is indeed subject to numerous perceptions, which is why authors

include a common dystopian archetype Erika Gottlieb calls the “widow on history” (Gottlieb 15)

to offer readers a transition from “the roots of the protagonists present in society’s past”. This

sense of legacy can breed a sense of collectivity between the child and caregiver, as reflected by

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Offred and the power dynamics of she and her mother (“…She breezed in and out of my house

as if I were the mother and she were the child” (252)), as well as with Luke (200).

Why an opportunistic dictatorship would desire to “rear” citizens as caregiver should be

clear enough. With eugenics and proper conditioning, it would be possible for any regime to

create future generations. “You are a transitional generation…” (117), Atwood explains through

an Aunt, who asserts the future stability of whole generations raised under the Republic of

Gilead. Ishiguro presents this fear through Miss Emily: “’It’s one thing to create students, such

as yourselves, for the donation programme. But a generation of created children who’d take their

place in society? They recoiled from that” (264). While neither Ishiguro nor Atwood foresee the

physical creation of new generations, they expect a more systematic and damaging order

emerging: the Totalitarian Family. To them, the role of caregiver, from an authoritarian

perspective, is more assured to maintain control than any form of genetic engineering. “Okay,

maybe I am boasting now. But it means a lot to me, being able to do my work well, especially

that bit about my donors staying “calm”” Kathy H. recalls, “I’ve developed a kind of instinct

around donors” (3). Underneath the first person veneer, a darker irony lurks, wherein Kathy is

validating herself within the exploitative structure she is subject to. “This tendency – which

might be called a type of impersonation, a kind of camouflaging of the writer's authority and

hence his responsibility – can be seen throughout Ishiguro's work, and goes hand in hand with

his most persistent themes: the fear of disorganization and abandonment; the psychical aftermath

of childhood; and the relationship between the institutional and the personal through which these

themes are frequently dramatized” (Cusk, "Rereading: Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro.")

In the latter half of the 20th Century, the breakdown of the family structure expressed a

number of social concerns beyond simple Darwinism or Malthusianism; it reflected underlying

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moral and emotional fears. In The Handmaid’s Tale and Never Let Me Go, authors explore the

inherent dangers of familial orders directly adopted by dystopian social systems. Atwood and

Ishiguro’s dystopias affect the role of “caregiver” in many ways, by usurping parental titles,

aligning themselves with dependent emotional needs, and reinforcing the “parenting” structure

for future generations. This “personal touch” can be immensely powerful, allowing an

ideological bridge between reason and belief. However, Atwood and Ishiguro’s dystopian

structures find their central protagonists straying from their intended upbringings, often using the

very instruments of their subjugation; language and symbolic material objects. Within a literary

context, the two novels evoke a varied tradition of satire; however, they represent a shift in the

moral tone of Dystopias, from absolute morality to relativism. Ishiguro and Atwood’s respective

formal choices make for both more personal, yet unreliable narratives. Ultimately, the focus on

familial roles muddies the moral tone of the novel to readers, mimicking the character’s

dissonance, reminding both that dystopias are created and run by human beings.

Within Ishiguro’s institutionalized family model, there exist “guardians” and “carers” as

parental figures. Guardians and carers both clearly evoke the titles and roles of caregiver. Carers

and donors both reflect values in society (caring, donating), valued primarily because they

indicate voluntary aid and help; however, to Hailsham students, there is nothing voluntary about

the process, the “value” of their title becoming solely a practical one, namely their efficient

organ transplanting. Even the term “completion”, while softening the concept of death and loss,

is meant to signal the end of one’s duty or calling. Booker suggests identity and title are often

linked in Dystopias (168). However, all the titles—contrary to most dystopian nomenclature—

are lower-case letters; typographically, they do not stand out as distinct or authoritative within

the text itself, appearing less overtly throughout the novel. This mirrors the shadowy quality of

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their influence, as though lacking in distinct identity. However, the names of people (Miss Lucy,

Ruth, etc.) and places (Hailsham, Cottages) are capitalized; while they appear important to

Kathy, the reader notices that the guardians have no last names, much like all the Hailsham

students and their abbreviated titles (Kathy H.). This implies a distancing, a subtle aspect of

unfamiliarity that pervades the relations of the novel.

Despite this fact, the guardians show distinct features to children, functioning to them as

various types of parents “representing precisely that elision of the institutional and the personal

that generates the undertone of disturbance in so much of [Ishiguro’s] work” (Cusk). “Miss

Geraldine was everyone’s favorite guardian when we were that age. She was gentle, soft spoken,

and always comforted you when you needed it, even when you’d done something bad, or been

told off by another guardian” (19). To the children, she is considered “the best guardian at

Hailsham” (49), an aspect that affects the way they view aspects such as doting (“This was how

resentment started” (21)). When Ruth lies about a gesture favoritism, “…claiming the pencil case

was a gift from Miss Geraldine” (57), she asks Kathy, “’But do you really like her? Like she’s

special?” (48), implying Ruth’s maternal connection to Geraldine. “Miss Lucy was the most

sporting of all the guardians at Hailsham…she’d never been someone like Miss Geraldine who

you turned to when you were upset” (26). Another maternal archetype, Tommy associates Miss

Lucy with stability, allowing him a sense of equilibrium regarding his anger. “…Deep down, it

wasn’t my fault. And whenever I felt rocky about it, I’d catch sight of her walking about, or I’d

be in one of her lessons, and she wouldn’t say anything about our talk, but I’d look at her, and

she’d sometimes see me and give me a little nod. And that’s all I needed” (29). Lucy’s allowance

of his low expectations in creativity is reflected in the little attention Hailsham students come to

expect from guardians (“…all I needed”). Moreover, the language of most Hailsham students, as

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a result of incessant desire for validation, shows a desire to infer a connection from something

Miss Lucy “wouldn’t say”. It’s later implied that, when Miss Lucy leaves Hailsham, she plants

the seed of high expectations in Tommy (109), as well as having revealed prematurely their fate

as donors. “Miss Emily, our head guardian, was older than the others”, Kathy says, describing

how they “considered her to be fair and respected her decisions…it was her presence that made

us all feel so Hailsham” (39). As a caregiver, she is “as clear as anything…uncannily sharp” (43)

and “she hardly ever put you in detention, made you do chores or withdrew privileges” (44). She

comes to dominate the manner in which the children associate validation. They feel “there was a

real sense of feeling bad that we had, in a collective way, let down Miss Emily…”, then search

for “a signal that we were to be forgiven” (43), “something right away to redeem yourself” (44).

“Is there no end, to [The Commander’s] disguises of benevolence?” (87) Offred asks in a

sardonic manner, reflecting Atwood’s understanding of the value of masks in authoritarianism.

Gilead has a relentless control of language that encompasses nearly any term that delineates

familial titles and practices; even non-familial terms now refer to family practices.

Typographically, Atwood capitalizes everything to evoke an absolute authority in language (i.e.:

Wives, Commanders, Eyes, etc), a factor that seems a necessity if attempting to “parent” old

generations. Atwood’s Guardians are more like KBG, while her Aunts would appear more as

Ishiguro’s guardians in their educational role and emotional attachments to children. Commander

Waterford as a former marketing consultant, chose Aunts as “names derived from commercial

products available to women…”(308), to align a sense of allegiance; the subtle implication is

that the market association was considered to have more sway than the derivative familial

connotation of Aunt. Previously individual, though family oriented holidays such as “Birth Day”

(128) and “Labor Day” (199)—an ironic Marxist reference—have been usurped to reinforce the

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bonding, celebratory nature, of their comparatively horrific practices (Mohr 248). Atwood’s love

for language subversion abounds further as she appropriates busses (Birthmobile) and

ambulances (Emergevan) for the purpose of a totalitarian family order (114).

Atwood, as well as Ishiguro, selects a particular “parenting” style, namely one that

assumes a “personal role” in citizen’s life. In both Never Let Me Go and Handmaid’s Tale,

dystopian regimes use the caregiver role to align their cause with dependent emotional needs of

its subjects. With Gilead, Atwood suggests a paternal structure to the raising of its citizens (87),

(194), (219). While there appear more women than men, it is in fact a “maternally subsidized”

form of paternalism, where other women reinforce rules. As is common of patriarchal structures,

there exists a heavy emphasis on a meticulous hierarchy (Mohr 245). For women of Gilead,

Wives are at the top of the caste, then Daughters, with Aunts below, then Handmaids, Martha’s,

Econowives, Jezebels, and at the bottom Unwomen. The function of this structure is to create

disdain between classes and to have enough to maintain the unsteady infrastructure of Gilead.

Within the Handmaids, the names even indicate a social order, with the names Offred and Ofglen

as “patronyms, composed of the possessive prepositions” (305), a distortion of modern marital

nomenclature, such as “maiden names”. Also common in Paternalism is a direct denial of

financial mobility to women (175-7), a factor that directly contributed to the state of Gilead. It

seemed to work in their favor as, in the months following the female financial deprivation,

Offred describes how she thought “about my family. I started doing more housework, more

baking…” (180)

In Never Let Me Go, Ishiguro slowly shows Hailsham to be a highly matriarchal

structure. As a lesser evil within the Donation Programme, Hailsham is revealed to be

comparatively more nurturing of its students (19), (152-53), (262), a post-consumer cause to

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allow students to be creative. Perhaps most notable, is that it is a dystopian structure that is

owned and almost exclusively run by women. Marie-Claude, who, in childhood, appeared cold

to Kathy, is revealed as one of the operators of Hailsham. “Madame now appeared to me like an

intimate, someone much closer to us than anyone new we’d met over the recent years. That’s

why suddenly…I spoke to her honestly and simply, almost as I might have done years ago to a

guardian” (252). Retrospectively, to Kathy, she feels warmer than anybody they’d met in life.

Upon discovering “…there are students being reared in deplorable conditions, conditions you

Hailsham students could hardly imagine” (260-61), the reader is finally presented with a hint that

there is actually a world worse than that of the Hailsham students. Unlike Atwood’s structure,

information in Never Let Me Go isn’t actively censored; since they are children, Hailsham can

more convincingly construct a reality that emphasizes peace and comfort. “The "scientific" basis

of the novel is vague: it is the emotional world of the clones themselves that Ishiguro is

interested in, for these are children without parents, children who lack the psychological burden

of childhood that Ishiguro so painstakingly articulated in The Unconsoled. And what he

concludes is that a child without parents has no defense against death” (Cusk). As the novel

develops, it becomes an existential question to readers, one that Miss Emily suggests a “more

humane” answer to: “But we sheltered you during those years, and we gave you your

childhoods” (268).

One particular method guardians used to maintain a blissful ignorance was by enforcing

low expectations upon the children (165-66). Early in the novel, Miss Lucy tells Tommy “…that

if I didn’t want to be creative…that was perfectly alright” (23). In particular, the art to Tommy

(192) and the essay to Kathy H. (197) both indicate a lack of reinforcement on the part of their

guardians to encourage the students’ progression. They grow up, fantasizing of (143) “…

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becoming a postman or working on a farm…” as “normal” children might want to be a movie

star or astronaut. Upon finding Ruth’s possible, itself an evocation of lineage, Kathy mentions

how “without realizing it, we’d been bracing ourselves for a let down” (159-160). Later, Miss

Emily reveals this to be a tactic to avoid any distress on the part of the students, remarking how

“I did all the worrying and questioning for the lot of you” (260). The lack of responsibility—

except for their bodies—conditioned them to avoid that which scares them.

With a natural avoidance of conflict, perhaps the most damning to the students was

Hailsham’s policy to avoid specificity unless necessary (57). Perhaps the most dystopian tactic, it

allowed them to select information and fill in holes instead of asking questions. Regarding the

rumor of “the Gallery”, Kathy recalls “certainly it hadn’t been from the guardians: they never

mentioned the Gallery, and there was an unspoken rule that we should never raise the subject in

their presence” (31). When a student later asks “’Miss, why does Madame take our things

anyway’…virtually everybody shot daggers at Polly, before turning eagerly to Miss Lucy” (40).

Though they reinforce the behavior of the guardians, they still desperately want to know. The

question is contextually ironic because of the physical association with people “taking [their]

things away”; it is another question Miss Lucy delays answering other than saying: “a good

reason”. It becomes the question that drives the Tommy’s narrative: “Why Madame took away

all the best work” (174). Regardless, it is one Tommy and the others avoid seeking a complete

answer to (65), instead piecing together their own interpretation. Often, the children seem to

know information without actually remembering being told. Miss Lucy later sees this concept of

“…you’ve been told and not told” (81) as being one of the more elusive aspects of their

subjugation. Things are often left unexplained to characters and are seen as “definitely an

understanding” (132) within the story. More uniquely, when truths are presented by authority

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figures, it’s within a sandwich of information, buried under the normal noise of Hailsham (78).

To Miss Lucy, as well as Fraser, their lack of awareness of their exploitation is the worst

injustice; however, Ishiguro shows it as another tactic to allow the students a life without worry

and fear, ostensibly of death. In striking contextual irony, Miss Emily reminds Tommy and

Kathy that “’people did their best not to think about you’” (263), exactly as the students do about

their mortality. This is supported in one of the last scenes, where Tommy mentions how “Ruth

wanted that other thing for us”, “that other thing” referring to her not being his carer, not

remembering him as being “that way”, or dying (280-82).

The nature of the clones, particularly the carers, is to allow for the “maternal instinct” to

protect the other students. In their childhood, Tommy’s outbursts disturbed them greatly. “…By

that stage, each of us was secretly wishing a guardian would come from the house and take him

away” (10). The protective quality was such that they’d “been taught to think about each other,

but never the guardians” (88). If they act separately, they feel “…like somehow we were letting

the side down” (74). This innate collectivity, much like practical communism, makes them

attuned to group mentalities, avoiding solitude whenever possible. At one point during their final

Hailsham years, Tommy is sitting alone: “Maybe all Hannah had meant to do was point out how

Tommy…looked a bit of a spare part” (101). This spare part is a reoccurring term (125) in the

book akin to “sticking out like a sore thumb”, implying both a car part and a body part; this

further reinforces their desire for organ matches within the Donor Programme.

Both Ishiguro and Atwood take up the role of “The Provider” for their respective

subjects, a caregiver whom a child may depend on for basic necessities. In Never Let Me Go, the

most necessary provision for children is quality of their physical, material state. “…At Hailsham,

we had to have some form of medical almost every week…” (13). The most overtly ironic

16

section is on smoking “’so keeping yourselves well, keeping yourselves very healthy inside,

that’s much more important for each of you than it is for me’”(67-69). While the language is

identical to that of a protective parent, it uses the notion of hypocrisy or contradiction to link

qualities of authority; and yet, the acquainted reader understands it to be merely “quality

assurance”. The same applies for the students’ lessons on sex as being dangerous, “…not just

because of the diseases, but because, she said, ‘sex affects emotions in ways you’d never

expect’” (83). While the “diseases” carries an obvious weight to readers, the notion of them

being affected “in ways” they’d “never expect” implies ways they cannot control, either

guardians or students. This is a way to further ensure the students maintain psychological health.

However, the guardians can’t even maintain detachment between themselves and the children, as

Kathy reflects: “Didn’t we all dream from time to time about one guardian or other bending the

rules and doing something special for us?” (60). Emily later reflects on her role of provider,

saying “’I hope you can appreciate how much we were able to secure for you…I’m sorry we

couldn’t secure more for you than we did, but you must realize how much worse things once

were” (261). This again implies that the donor program is primarily focused on the bare

minimum for other donors.

Atwood’s “Provider” role, instead of giving the bare necessities, attempts to redefine

necessity not as “the mother of invention”, but the “mother” as the necessity of “invention”.

With women providing the most valuable asset to Gilead—new life—the regime has made sure

that every woman is accounted for in role and location. Atwood’s grotesque inflation of the

Bourgeois family contains its subjects within mansions called “Households”, a term Offred

expropriates to mean, “hold of the house”. The Commander provides them with religious

propaganda (87), “bedtime stories”(89) as Offred jokes. She reappropriates using anti-feminist

17

rationalizations sarcastically, noting how “He works long hours. He has a lot of responsibilities”

(90), apparently joking. In a realization of her hidden power, as a purveyor of Gilead’s most

valuable asset, she realizes that other women look to her as a provider of sorts (162-163), as a

way to approximate motherhood for themselves. She has become a commodity, an “instrument

of production” that provides a service for other humans (“I am to provide these joys for her”

(135)). Indeed, the quality of rendering services for other humans marks the nature of Offred’s

new “family relations”. The Household’s attempt to simulate bonding experiences takes on its

most parodic quality in the various “Scrabble” sequences (138-140), (209) of the book (“…this

was once the game of old women, old men…”). To Offred, aside from being oddly tantalizing, it

feels “…as if we were an old married couple, or children…” (155) playing board games. It is

infinitely more intimate than their ritual copulation: “This is not recreation, even for the

Commander. This is serious business. The Commander, too, is doing his duty” (95). However,

the Commander expects intimacy as a result of their fake bonding experience. Even secret

intimacy is expected to be a sort of transaction between the two, Offred noting that “what he

wants is intimacy, but I can’t give him that” (211).

The Marxist of humanity as becoming a “commodity form” is pervasive within the 21st

Century Western dystopia, as Gottlieb suggests a close link between authoritarian and corporate

logic. “Women can’t add,” The Commander reflecting a female stereotype, “For them, one and

one and one and one don’t make four…Just one and one and one and one…” (186). This

segment evokes Weber’s concept of “rational accounting”, with “rational” in this sense meaning

statistically (i.e.: women don’t see big picture) and accounting in the sense that they see each

person as an individual (one), not as a mass (four). Offred does directly disprove the Commander

by being able to accurately “calculate” her own relative value. Offred’s “use-value” gives her

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leverage over the Wives in a way she didn’t have before (153), her trysts with the Commander

making her feel like “I was taking something away from [Serena]…” (161). The central turning

point in her sense of personal value comes at an unexpected point for her. “It’s hard to be afraid

of a man who is sitting watching you put on hand lotion” she warns, “This lack of fear is

dangerous” (210). On one hand, we see her wielding her power (“lack of fear”) and yet, as she

does so, she further objectifies herself to being something worse (233); this is the central concern

of Atwood’s feminist criticism. While some might see this as condemning her, this is a factor

that Gottlieb suggests may not condemn her, as she is simply acting within her means for the

purpose of finding her child (Gottlieb 110).

The Western fear revolves around a capital institution that is self-perpetuating and

inescapable. From a corporate perspective, Ishiguro’s depiction of Hailsham’s management of

students would make for a near perfect business model, being as they themselves are

commodities. “I can see now, too, how the Exchanges had a more subtle effect on us all. If you

think about it, being dependent on each other to produce the stuff that might become your private

treasures—that’s bound to do things to your relationships” (16). Kathy’s reflection upon her

childhood, the way in which children associate material objects with one another, is a horror

develops underneath Ishiguro’s plot. After Hailsham, students are sent to “the Cottages were the

remains of a farm that had gone out of business years before. There was an old farmhouse, and

around it, barns, outhouses, stables all converted for us to live in” (116). Of course, it isn’t until

the end of the novel that the donors can truly appreciate their relative “value”, as expressed by

Miss Emily, Ishiguro’s “widow of history”, who describes “…all these ways to cure so many

previously incurable conditions. That was what the world noticed the most, wanted the most”

(262). However, Emily does cite their fatal flaw as being analogous the Hailsham students: “Our

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little movement, we were always too fragile, always too dependent on the whims of our

supporters” (264). Though, the success of their business model, the horrific self-perpetuating

quality was inherent in the job of carer. Kathy’s value as a carer is that she is theoretically able to

facilitate the exploitative method more “humanely” and effectively as a result of her connections

with donors. “As I say, the work gets a lot harder when you don’t have that deeper link with the

donor, and though I miss being a carer, it feels just about right to be finishing at last come the

end of the year” (4). Ironically, the “work” begins to seem difficult because of the connection

(210) with Ruth and Tommy.

Both Ishiguro and Atwood’s “regimes” utilize certain techniques to reinforce the

“children’s” model for parenthood, for future generations. Atwood illustrates, through Offred’s

past the manner with which pervasive parenting habits resurface in new generations, as she

recalls her relationship with her mother and her own daughter (109). In the “History” section,

Atwood’s academic critique reveals their tactic of “control of the indigenous by members of their

own group” (308). The regime attempts reinforce future generations of women through the Aunts

(162-163), forcing maternalism upon the current generation, with “many of the Wives have such

gardens, it’s something for them to order and maintain and care for” (12). “And there will be

family albums, too…” Offred mentions, grimly foreseeing future generations, reared by

Handmaids and raised by Gilead. The Particicution is a particularly macabre reinforcement of the

protective values of Gilead and, by participating, each citizen effectively validates Gilead’s

power (280). Atwood depicts Janine as something of the “model child” of this dystopian

structure (281), a young woman who has suffered a psychotic break, is a violent psychopath,

having regressed to her previous identity as a waitress, ironically another form of servant.

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“I didn’t want to be the model offspring; the incarnation of her ideas”(122), Offred says

of her mother. Ishiguro and Atwood include characters who, whether intentional or not,

transgress from their dystopian rule with the very tools of their subjugation. While it shows a

breakdown of cause and effect regarding control tactics, the nature of absolute control appears to

bring them closer to the cause their fighting against. Atwood’s use of words clearly illustrates the

relativity of language in Offred’s world, especially in a scene regarding the Handmaid’s viewing

of footage from an old feminist protest, containing the words: “Take back the night.” (119). It

becomes clear, with Atwood’s numerous “Night” chapter headings that Offred is beginning to

“take back the night”, with nighttime as being her only time of freedom. Atwood often uses the

language of capitalism to evoke free will and opportunism that are so coveted in Gilead; “Sanity

is a valuable possession…” (109) Offred once says, one she “hoards”. Other material concepts

Offred seems to value are “earrings” (135), lotion (209), “jobs” (173), “networking” (202),

“pens” (penis envy)(186), lipstick, cigarettes and alcohol; some of these are distinctly feminine

objects, no different than she might be considered. Atwood’s fascination with these words

reflects an almost fetishistic interest within Offred to reassert meaning to herself. However,

Offred finds that communication is still dependent on others’ knowledge of connotation.

Atwood’s breakdown of “mayday” illustrates this (44), (202), (284), (306), (309). Offred

consciously associates May Day with “danger” and, eventually, the “Mayday underground”

movement. However, May Day is less consciously presented as the traditional day of fertility.

So, at the end of her narrative, Offred finds that the association of the word with the movement

died when Oflgen died, seeming to deprive it of all its collective power; though, this is rebuked

in the History section.

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Much like Atwood, a sense of materialism provides the Hailsham children with a sense of

power. The Children of Hailsham are highly materialistic, with their various objects acting as

totems for them. Tommy’s paintings and Kathy’s audio-tape (64-67), (70-71) all allow an

attachment beyond their own person, each conveying a pride of ownership that evokes their

attention to physical health. Kathy’s tape is “an object, like a brooch or a ring, and especially

now Ruth has gone, it’s become one of my most precious possessions” (76) (171-73). Much as

their value is purely physical, they place a similar value on their personal objects; perhaps this is

to indicate a sense of control, wherein one’s property becomes more personal than one’s internal

organs. Kathy wonders if “maybe all of us at Hailsham had little secrets like that—little private

nooks created out of thin air where we could go off alone with our fears and longings” (74).

However, at the cottages, she “could see none of the veterans had collections” (130), indicating

the growth process of “moving on”. This materialism a form of expropriation, to assert their own

value to objects in a way that subtly justifies their own value as objects. However, these objects

can serve as intermediaries for personal connection rather than impediments. For the donors,

each of these objects collects emotional significance, namely the inexpressible desire for kinship.

Thus, the objects become totems for the affection they crave but must eschew. While the objects

cannot prove a soul within the novel, they prove a soul to readers. The fact that the objects meant

something to the donors implies a creative synthesis.

However, it is unclear as to whether their “creative appropriation” is an internal

validation—of their souls—or an external validation—within the Hailsham structure (187-88).

Though, a key scene illustrates Ishiguro’s coded foreshadowing where, after Tommy presents his

theory to Kathy about the art, they see “two women passing by with dogs on leads, and although

it was completely stupid, we both stopped talking until they’d gone further up the slope and out

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of earshot” (175). The two women evoked a learned response in the Tommy and Kathy, from

Hailsham, much like the dogs they have “on leads”. Moreover, the two women—evoking

Madame and Emily—are “leading” the dogs, as if implying the children are simply being

mystified. Ishiguro seems to imply that it wasn’t “the creation” of art that was important; it was

the Madame taking paintings away. Part of their “upbringing” seemed to have been devoted to

preparing them for separation. This is reinforced later in the novel in the scene with an old Miss

Emily, wherein Kathy “realized, with a little chill, that these questions had never been for me, or

for Tommy, but for someone else—someone listening behind us in the darkened half of the

room” (255).

The nature of dystopian satire can be easily summed up in a statement Offred makes in

The Handmaid’s Tale: “I don’t want to be telling this story” (273). Satire presents a fiction that is

grotesquely distorted, as an often-humorous commentary on real world vice that is, by nature,

repellent, as suggested by Mikhail Bakhtin. Atwood and Ishiguro both draw from gothic literary

traditions to conjure the horror of their visions. Well versed in the gothic, Atwood evokes a

carlivalesque blend of Jacobean morality tales, lurid history and Romantic poetry. Her mordant

Juvenalian wit and technique for the grotesque is clearly inspired by 18th Century satirists

Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope. Further, she evokes some of the darker qualities of Geoffrey

Chaucer’s stories (Theiss 138), such as sexual degradation, black humor, and of course her title

The Handmaid’s Tale, itself a pastiche of numerous Canterbury Tales, specifically the Wife of

Bath.

Ishiguro’s narrative is stylistically reminiscent of the Gothic novel, particularly the

Victorian Romance. The society depicted is highly constricted, self-conscious, and marked by

the rules that shape it (50). The first part of the novel sets up a concrete dystopian structure

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within Hailsham, one satirically similar to real world boarding school. The rules and mores of

Hailsham—the one’s that the students meticulously rationalize and adopt—become a dystopian

power structure in Never Let Me Go, imposing perhaps a more powerful sense of dread. The

oppression of Hailsham haunts them, yet they sense it was comparatively the best part of their

lives. Here, Ishiguro plays on contextual irony; as they grow older, the donors rationalize

nostalgia in a familiar way to readers, in looking back at the past as happier. As the novel

progresses, the reader senses an exponentially grimmer future for them. To the readers, Hailsham

was clearly preferable to their adult lives, yet the characters assert that it only feels this way. It’s

this type of ironic, half-truth that allows them—and readers— to continue with their lives.

Ishiguro surmises that a character’s internal restrictions become more powerful than any external

restrictions.

Aware of the inherently instructional quality of dystopian literature, Atwood and Ishiguro

have presented their overtly familial dystopias in youth oriented literary forms. The Handmaid’s

Tale a structural parody of Grimm’s fairy tales and, indeed, much of Atwood’s work has roots in

fairy tales (Mohr 241). Ishiguro’s format, using symbolic overtones, transcendent mood, and

dramatic irony is much more of the Bildungsroman category, evidenced in much of his work that

focuses on children. In subtle ways, Ishiguro has restructured the dystopian novel, using a model

of a familiar reality that grows more restrictive as the narrator does. Rules are slowly imposed,

information is selectively released; (“This technique is like that in the famous anecdote of the

frog which, when thrown into a pot of boiling water, immediately jumps out. If, however it is

placed into a pot of cold water that is warmed gradually, the frog remains calmly inside as it

boils to death” (Fraser 4). “I’m making it sound pretty bad, but none of us minded the

discomforts one bit—it was all part of the excitement of being at the Cottages” (117); Ishiguro is

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intending Kathy to express youthful zeal as having excused many of their conditions. He has

taken the narrative form of a bildungsroman and placed it within a dizzying context of youthful

subjectivity; a coming of age tale that looks deceptively like our own. Ishiguro aligns the

instructive aim, narrative structure, and contextual irony of the two genres. Speaking in “A

Conversation with Kazuo Ishiguro”, Ishiguro explains why “the school setting… is appealing

because in a way it’s a clear physical manifestation of the way all children are separated off from

the adult world, and are drip-fed little pieces of information about the world that awaits them,

often with generous doses of deception, kindly meant or otherwise. In other words, it serves as a

very good metaphor for childhood in general.”

The Handmaid’s Tale and Never Let Me Go signal a shift in the intended morality of

dystopian literature from bilateral morality to relativism. Ishiguro and Atwood affect this change

by focusing on character development. Some theories suggest the humanization of authority

figures in dystopian fiction seems to undermine their power to both readers and characters (Sisk

130). While Ishiguro and Atwood don’t deny that these qualities appear weaken them, they have

an opposite effect on characters, endearing them more to the antagonist. Gottlieb proposes that

complex central protagonists align moral and emotional features (272-73), allowing an even

greater depth in conception: the nature of internal oppression. This is applied through

“reconstructed” first person narratives. Gottlieb suggests the nature of Offred’s memory might be

an impediment to Atwood’s critique of the system (104). However, it shows itself as a modern

dystopian stylistic motif—with origins in Zamiatin’s We—of the scattered citizen as reflecting

the system that influences it. In this way, we see an even more convincing picture of the efficacy

of the system. Ishiguro uses a similar motif with Kathy H, where Ishiguro’s reveal of information

simulates the students’ avoidant behavior, influenced by Hailsham, wherein Kathy’s first

25

mention to the reader of Hailsham closing comes through a casual conversation with an old

student (211). By Part III, Kathy’s mind proves more developed to shut out unpleasant thoughts.

However, it always reflects back to the continual reinforcement of Hailsham’s hush-hush

policies.

Dystopian readers are now forced to consider the humanity of villains. Offred reflects on

the Commander, “occasionally, I try to put myself in his position…” and consider the

“tenderness, he wants to inspire” (210). Ultimately, it requires both protagonists and readers to

consider forgiving the oppressors (134-135), Offred herself remarking how”…I’ll try, but it isn’t

easy” (194-95). Atwood’s’ suggestion of exceptions (129) implies the fallible nature of mankind;

however, the first-person narration also implies a potential subjectivity on the sides of both

Offred and Kathy. The Handmaid’s have hoods, blocking their vision. Offred, as a narrator, is

constantly viewing things from angles, with blinders on; this itself is a symbolic warning of the

validity of “reconstructions”. Indeed, the fallibility and good intentions of the human guardians

is often reflected in the guardians, who also make exceptions. “Of course, officially, Guardians

weren’t supposed to show favouratism, but there were little displays of affection all the time

within certain parameters…” (57). The irony grows less clear in novels. Sisk has a “litmus test”

for irony—Aldous Huxley associated with more and George Orwell associated with less—where

he places Atwood as “less ironic” (96). While the litmus test includes two notable archetypes, it

is highly reductive, not specifying the varying categories and uses of irony. Atwood includes

numerous layers of contextual irony, though her most distinctive is the first-person narrative,

adding complexity and ambiguity as its own dystopian texture. Booker insists in The Dystopian

Impulse in Modern Literature that her novel “contains considerable parody and humor that sets it

apart from…predecessors” (142).

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What proves a larger concern to Ishiguro and Atwood especially is the tendency for

reactionary behavior, which they see as producing the state of dystopia itself. Offred’s line “I

don’t want to be telling this story” (273) takes on a new meaning in the wake of relative

morality: I don’t want my meaning to be misconstrued. While the academics in the History

section claim that their “job is not to censure but to understand” (Atwood 302), Atwood shows

them using Academia as a way of logically dissecting discomfort or atrocity, as well as perhaps

unintentionally “a new attempt at control as academics gloss over the emotional and moral

impact of the story” (Sisk 121). Ishiguro reflects the impact of bilateral morality on the lives of

Hailsham students “’People’s opinion, their feelings, they go one way, then the other. It just so

happens you grew up at a certain point in the process’” (266). It was a result of them being

merely a commodity, a cause that their existence could be so easily negated.

“Before that, all clones—or students, as we preferred to call you—existed only to supply

medical science…that’s largely all you were to most people. Shadowy objects in test tubes”

(261) Emily insists that “the world didn’t want to be reminded how the donation programme

really worked” (264). Later, Marie-Claude reveals that she had appropriated (“It wasn’t really

you”) Kathy as something of an object, a symbolic reflection of her feelings, much as Kathy had

with the tape. To Ishiguro, we see the children turned into an “it”, both a post-consumer cause

and a commodity (272). Here, Madame reveals an attitude similar to readers, the type that gives

voice to concerns of a “new world coming rapidly. More scientific, efficient, yes. More cures for

the old sicknesses...But a harsh, cruel world.” Ishiguro seems to be warning about the same

mentality Atwood does, the transforming of “humans” to “its”.

Offred’s memory of Luke mercy killing their cat reflects this notion of “an it”, when her

refers to the cat as an “it” (193); the insinuation of depersonalization as making it easier to

27

commit atrocities (Mohr 269). Indeed, this permeates the novel, with her mother early on, when

burning pornography, says, “Don’t let her see it” (39). This is later reflected during the

Particicution, where the supposed rapist is killed, and “has become an it” (281) Atwood shows

how Bilateral impulse breeds an “us or them” attitude, with the phrase “I don’t want to be telling

this story” taking on a new meaning: I don’t want to make anybody the “it”

In 21st Century Culture, the dystopian genre has taken on a particular value: that of a

hypothetical thought space for social conditions. In professions involving theory and strategy,

dystopian and utopian scenarios are used to explore potential real world outcomes. In Industry,

they take on valuable roles in Research and Development. However, it’s in mainstream

entertainment that the dystopian genre takes on two dominant forms: the Techno-Dystopia and

the Post-Apocalyptic. The Techno-Dystopia is a more streamlined version of the 20th century

mechanized Dystopias, wherein humanity is either completely dependent upon technology or has

become the technology itself (i.e.: cyborgs or digital constructs). Itself an offshoot of dystopian

literature, the Post-Apocalyptic genre addresses the concerns of familial degeneration in a

different way; the family seems to be the only protective structure. Nevil Schute’s book On The

Beach (1959), Andrei Tarkovsky’s film Stalker (1979), and Mad Max (1979) have all been very

influential in development of the genre. The 21st Century trend leans towards post-apocalyptic

survivalism, with Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (2006) as perhaps the most notable example,

embodying an intensely protective quality (guardian article). Dominated by the zombie and

contagion sub-genres, the modern dystopian trend focuses on a fear of populism and the fight for

legacy through family; their main aim seems to be that of preservation. In this way, the modern

Post-Apocalyptic genre reflects a more conservative reaction to dystopian factors, more

protective than inclusive individualism.

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At the same time, children are exposed to dystopian works earlier and earlier in life.

Orwell and Huxley are often standard texts for Middle and High School, with The Handmaid’s

Tale and Never Let Me Go appearing on public school book lists. Youth Fiction takes on the

Dystopian tradition in novels such as The Giver and Hunger Games, which critique family

structures and corporate oligopolies respectively; these offer an inclusively individual message,

often critical of collectivism. How much influence does this trend affect youth’s burgeoning

ideological concerns? Are children convinced by the message or do they simply enjoy the book?

Do they live in a more aggressively Capitalist world than Huxley or Orwell? Do they see the

similarities in the world around them? Or is the commodification of the dystopian genre in

danger of distorting its inherent message? What might young fans think of a Subway Sandwich

promotion for The Hunger Games, a story denouncing capitalist authoritarianism? Might they

realize the irony? Or would they simply associate the word “hunger” with Subway, as implied?

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Works Cited

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Atwood, Margaret. The Handmaid's Tale. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1986. Print.

Bakunin, Mikhail. "Revolutionary Catechism." Bakunin On Anarchism. Trans. Sam Dolgoff. Montréal: Black Rose, 2002. N. pag. Print.

Booker, M. Keith. The Dystopian Impulse in Modern Literature: Fiction as Social Criticism. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1994. Print.

Booker, M. Keith. Dystopian Literature: A Theory and Research Guide. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1994. Print.

Cusk, Rachel. "Rereading: Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro." The Guardian. N.p., 28 Jan. 2011. Web. <http://www.theguardian.com/books/2011/jan/29/never-let-me-go-kazuo-ishiguro>.

Daniel, Elton L., and ʻAlī Akbar. Mahdī. Culture and Customs of Iran. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2006. Print.

Foley, Duncan K. "The Severest Critic." Adam's Fallacy: A Guide To Economic Theology. Cambridge, MA: Belknap of Harvard UP, 2006. N. pag. Print.

Fraser, Nancy. "On Justice: Lessons from Plato, Rawls and Ishiguro." New Left Review 2.74 (2012): 1-7. Web. <http://newleftreview.org/II/74/nancy-fraser-on-justice>.

Gottlieb, Erika. Dystopian Fiction East and West: Universe of Terror and Trail. Montreal: McGill-Queen's UP, 2001. Print.

Ishiguro, Kazuo. "Author Q & A: A Conversation with Kazuo Ishiguro." Randomhouse.com. Random House, n.d. Web. Dec. 2013. <http://www.randomhouse.com/book/85609/never-let-me-go-by-kazuo-ishiguro>.

Ishiguro, Kazuo. Never Let Me Go. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2005. Print.

Kershaw, Ian. Hitler, 1889-1936: Hubris. New York: W.W. Norton, 2000. Print.

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Moghadam, Valentine M. Modernizing Women: Gender and Social Change in the Middle East. Boulder, CO: L. Rienner, 2003. Print.

Mohr, Dunja M. Worlds Apart: Dualism and Transgression in Contemporary Female Dystopias. Jefferson, NC: McFarland &, 2005. Print.

Radzinskii, Edvard. Stalin. Trans. H. T. Willetts. New York: Anchor /Doubleday, 1997. Print.

Sisk, David W. Transformations Of Language in Modern Dystopias. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1997. Print.

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