I studied this at A Level and found multitudes to analyse, and whilst the vision of Gilead Atwood creates through only what has already happened to women throughout history is terrifying and poignant, I found then and now that the real greatness in this book lies in her incredible ability to portray the psychology of a woman, more specifically, the consciousness that, entirely out of one’s control, hinges upon men. Writing of the conscious and the subconscious is infinitely difficult, but I have never encountered such detailed analysis of the way being needed by men really infiltrates women’s psyches, and is a grand source of oppression in and of itself when it is so incessant and subtle and demanding. Although, reading this again, I was instilled with more fear than I was before. I am very scared for the lives of women now, but certainly for the future. I do not feel comforted.

Or sometimes, even when you were still loving, still falling you'd wake up in the middle of the night, when the moonlight was coming through the window onto his sleeping face, making the shadows in the sockets of his eyes darker and more cavernous than in daytime, and you'd think, Who knows what they do, in their own or with other men? Who knows what they say or where they are likely to go? Who can tell what they really are? Under their daily-ness.