There, I've done it again.  It's a literately Philistine thing to do.  To begin a novel, struggle through at least two-thirds of it, and then abandon it. 

When I read Margaret Atwood's Survival many years ago I liked it quite a lot, and thought she was an excellent writer.  Since then, downhill all the way.  I couldn't get past the first few chapters of The Handmaid's Tale, and now I've set aside The Blind Assassin.

And, I don't feel the least bit badly about not continuing either of them.  The story line, the language and the crude attempts to integrate fantasy with reality could never begin to match the mastery of the Bulgakov classic, The Master and Margarita.

What accounts for her formidable reputation as an elegant and excellent writer?  She's no Doris Lessing, no Umberto Eco, no Paul Theroux, no V.S. Naipaul, no Zhang Wei, no Frank McCourt.  Nor is she the equal of a writer like Neil Bissoondath, Frances Itani, or Rohinton Mistry, let alone Alice Munroe.

Her writing is the epitome of clumsy; her plots zanily uninteresting, careful editing is not her style, an arrogant presumption seems more to her taste. 

Reading her books I feel irritated beyond belief that someone like her is possessed of such an outstanding international reputation, that she is recipient of so much respect, so many awards, both national and international.

Above all, it's a puzzle to me.  Somewhat like the non-objective art of an artist like Mark Rothko; a reputation built on bamboozling the public into thinking there is quality when in fact there is none whatever.