The Secret

( 3 )


Iris Surrey has a secret.

Iris Surrey is a secret.

An only child, Iris lives with her mother in a rambling house in a small midwestern town. Her mother is everything: provider, confidante, friend. But at seventeen, Iris begins to question their nearly symbiotic relationship—and the noticeable lack of others in their sheltered world. Where is Iris’s father? Where are her grandparents? What is her mother keeping from her? When she stumbles upon ...

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Iris Surrey has a secret.

Iris Surrey is a secret.

An only child, Iris lives with her mother in a rambling house in a small midwestern town. Her mother is everything: provider, confidante, friend. But at seventeen, Iris begins to question their nearly symbiotic relationship—and the noticeable lack of others in their sheltered world. Where is Iris’s father? Where are her grandparents? What is her mother keeping from her? When she stumbles upon the explosive truth, Iris begins a monumental journey of self-discovery—one that will throw everything she has ever known into turmoil.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Inquiring and intelligent . . . The Secret is a meditation on that central puzzle of human life, the puzzle of identity.”
The Washington Post

“An intelligent and delightfully bizarre excursion into ethical and philosophical issues raised by technology.”

—The Independent

“Hoffman’s consistent sensitivity is informed by her wide erudition. . . . The Secret is compelling throughout for Hoffman’s prose, for her insights on identity, for her reflections on history.”
The New York Times Book Review

“Hoffman brilliantly meditates on [a] mystery in her auspicious fiction debut. . . . This is a novel of ideas in the tradition of 1984 and Brave New World.”
Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Hoffman’s . . . multilayered, cautionary ‘fable’ of genetic engineering in the near future proves compelling, in both its cool intelligence and its insistent moral questioning. . . . The Secret is intriguing and deeply sinister, even as it ultimately affirms those mysteries of life and human freedom that still elude us.”
—The Guardian

“VERY MUCH RECOMMENDED . . .[A] thoughtful, philosophical treatment of the devastating effects a wholly fatherless state can trigger. An uneasy look at the potential fallout from biological tampering, this first novel . . . is ripe for lively book discussion.”
Library Journal

“A serious, intelligent, psychological novel which will enhance Hoffman’s reputation for wise words gracefully expressed.”
—Financial Times

“Hoffman sketches a creepily plausible near-future in which her protagonist experiences a very 21st-century identity crisis.”
Kirkus Reviews

“A modern allegory somewhere between Frankenstein, the golems of Jewish folklore, and Blade Runner.
Independent on Sunday

From The Critics
At [its] best when [Hoffman] explores Iris' anguish in the context of technology's threats to our traditional notions of self.)
New York Times
A fierce and provocative inquiry into the ethical, social and epistemological significance of human cloning...
Time Out New York
The Secret is compelling throughout for Hoffman's prose, for her insights on identity, for her reflections on history.
Washington Post
A meditation on...the puzzle of identity...As a cautionary tale, warning against human hubris..., [it] strikes the telling notes.
Publishers Weekly
Can a clone contain a new human soul or just a photocopy? Hoffman brilliantly meditates on this mystery in her auspicious fiction debut as she examines the bond between Iris and Elizabeth Surrey, which gives new meaning to the well-worn term "my mother myself." Iris's search for identity begins when the teen discovers her birth in 2005 was achieved via cloning. Iris's single mom, Elizabeth, fled Manhattan to the Midwest to rear Iris after becoming estranged from her parents and sister. They live a quiet, symbiotic life until Iris turns 12 and her mother falls in love with Steven, a professor, who becomes disturbed by the unnatural closeness of the two and leaves. It's not long before Iris, in a tailspin of heart-wrenching confusion, flees home to see if she is more than just an extension of someone who is "not quite a mother and more than one: home, sibling, the larger part of myself, as much me as my limbs or bloodstream." Unraveling the secret of self takes her on a quest not easily ended. The relentless first-person viewpoint showcases the emotional and spiritual ramifications of being a cloned child: "I was her, I was her, I was her... Then who was I, who was she, what had she done? Did she steal my soul, my very self, or did she give me her own, by an unspeakable act of black magic?" Some SF readers may find the philosophical musings old hat, but wiser ones won't. (Nov. 5) Forecast: As the author of three books of serious nonfiction, Lost in Translation, Exit into History and Shtetl, Hoffman should find more of a mainstream than a genre audience, despite this novel's SF elements. As the imprint suggests, this is a novel of ideas in the tradition of 1984 and Brave New World. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
The time is 2022, the place is Chicago, and Iris Surrey has an unusually close relationship with her chilly mother, Elizabeth. At 17, Iris is wearying of the odd stares she triggers in others, especially when her look-alike mother is with her. Iris wants to learn the identity of her father, which, alas, is not possible; the reader will figure out before Iris does that she is the product of genetic engineering. When Iris uncovers the truth, she goes on an emotional rampage, intent on tracking down any blood relatives in the hope that they will make her feel more authentic. The results are painful, for Iris's kin are unable to embrace what they see as an uncanny freak of science. It is only through a relationship with a sympathetic young man that Iris finds respite. Those who shrug off today's headlines regarding imminent human cloning would be wise to read this thoughtful, philosophical treatment of the devastating effects a wholly fatherless state can trigger. An uneasy look at the potential fallout from biological tampering, this first novel by nonfiction author Hoffman (Shtetl) is ripe for lively book discussion. One minor quibble: British spellings abound, which can be disconcerting, given the setting. Still, very much recommended.-Beth E. Andersen, Ann Arbor Dist. Lib., MI Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Set in 2022, this impressive first novel by nonfiction author Hoffman (Shtetl, 1997, etc.) sketches a creepily plausible near-future in which her protagonist experiences a very 21st-century identity crisis. The title is deliberately misleading. The real, "all-too-human secret" will not be fully understood until the story's fnal pages. Hoffman expertly inserts enough clues for readers to guess the putative secret regarding narrator Iris Surrey's birth shortly before she does it on page 60: Iris isn't just Elizabeth Surrey's daughter, but her mother's clone. Finally understanding the reason for "The Weirdness," the preternatural closeness that always set them apart in the midwestern college town where her mother raised her, Iris flees to Elizabeth's native New York City, whose actual streets are subtly different from the Virtuals she viewed in school: "there were elements of surprise in the actual." The grandparents she's never met have moved from the Park Avenue address she found on old letters, so she takes up with Piotr, who can help her break into a classified e-mail address to locate them. Meanwhile, she watches organic artists reshaping actual animals using computer implants; visits a virtual club, where people use memory-chips to give themselves invented identities for a few hours; attends a debate on "Whither Human Design?"; and tries Piotr's Affect Simulator, which allows users to acquire specific emotions at particular intensities. Hoffman gradually and subtly makes the point that although Iris may feel especially unreal due to her origins (her birth in 2005 was one of the first human clonings), she lives in a world where "reality" is virtual as often as physical. Yet thecautiously optimistic ending suggests that authentic identity and experiences are still attainable. As can happen in philosophically inclined science fiction, the issues are more fully explored than the characters; but when those issues include the nature of reality and the location of the human soul, it's not such a drawback.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780345465368
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 4/27/2004
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 272
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.50 (h) x 0.65 (d)

Meet the Author

Eva Hoffman was born in Cracow, Poland, and emigrated to the United States at the age of thirteen. She is the author of three highly acclaimed works of nonfiction, Lost in Translation, Exit into History, and Shtetl. She splits her time between London and Cambridge, Massachusetts, where she is a visiting professor at MIT.

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Read an Excerpt

Of course, I’ve always had a secret. Have I always known it? I suppose I have in a way—in the way that children know such things. That is to say, I knew and didn’t know. But could I have been called a child, was I a real, an authentic child?

I had no doubt I was, of course. Which perhaps proves the point. You are what you think you are, aren’t you? Especially in the most essential matters, who on earth is to judge the nature of your nature, of your character, of your innermost self, except you, the subject, yourself? And yet. And yet.

Indeed, I felt I had an almost ordinary childhood. Blessedly ordinary, it might have been, given that I was growing up at a time when ordinariness was becoming the most exceptional condition, achieved only by the unusually lucky, or the unusually sane few.

Does that mean she was unusually sane, my mother? The possibility is unpalatable, but entirely plausible. She certainly gave the impression of being perfectly normal—and, after all, how do we judge others except through impressions, through appearances, largely or minutely observed? Even if we don’t judge ourselves in such ways at all. But then my mother had an exceptional talent for simulation.

We lived in a small college town not far from Chicago, in a rambling wooden house with two porches, a leafy yard and pleasant, eclectic clutter inside, spanning in styles from Victoriana to virtual trompe l’oeil. From the outside it was the kind of place you hardly see in the movies anymore, on the grounds that it’s unrealistic. Which I suppose it is. Midwestern towns like the one we lived in have been on their way to extinction for a long time now.

Still, my mother wasn’t exactly a provincial pastoralist. She had lived in New York before I was born, but after ten years of working hard and riding high she became sick and tired of its aggressions, false sophistication and greed. She found the ever muggier, pollution-spewed summers wearying. She’d been a highly paid investment consultant, but by the time she left Manhattan she was more than ready to give it all up. At least, that is how she told it to me, much later, when I was old enough to understand such things. As long as she was striving and testing herself, she thrived on the no-holds-barred competitiveness of New York’s financial world, on its adrenalin-driven energies and high stakes. But once she reached a certain point on the career ladder—it was not the glass ceiling, she had broken through that—her work went utterly flat on her. The meaning had gone out of it as if by evil magic, turning to dross and dust. That’s what she said, I remember. She needed something else—a new purpose, a more primal, deeper connection to life. And my mother wasn’t someone who was easily prevented from getting what she wanted. Or at least from going after it. Like so many of her generation, she was willful and proud of being so. She thought the world belonged to her and that she could only improve it. She had the right ideas, the right values and the right strategies. It followed that she should have what she wanted.

She had me. I became her new project, her great enterprise. She came to the Midwest, she told me, partly because she thought it would be a good place for a child to grow up. There were still the elements here, there was still nature. She thought that was terribly important, no matter how uncomfortable or excessive the elements got sometimes, what with the deadly cold and the deadly hot temperatures, which drove people into subterranean corridors and into their own, carefully controlled environments. She’d been involved in some kind of political movement in her twenties, to do with saving the earth and going back to nature, and she spoke about it with a nostalgia and a vehemence which baffled me. I didn’t understand how anyone could be so passionate about politics. But anyway, in moving to the Midwest, she was among other things following her principles.

And so our little town became her refuge, our hideaway. Not that she stopped working altogether. She was very good at what she did and once in a while her former clients still sought her expensive advice. I knew when this was happening, even when I was little, because my mother would suddenly become distracted and absorbed by something other than me, pulling interminable sheets of paper out of the printer, and studying insectlike columns of figures even as they emerged from its aperture and fell into the tray. Then she’d sit down at the computer and type out a response to what she’d read without pause or hesitation. There was always a small hurt on such occasions at being ignored by her for a few minutes; but there was also fascination in watching her, for even as a small child I was impressed by the assurance of her gestures, the glint of concentrated thought in her eye.

But such derailments of attention were rare. Mostly she devoted herself to me. In New York she had hustled in an antheap of collective activity, the press of a thousand bodies. I was to be an individual, a creative work. Paradoxically. Ironically. Anyway, we kept very much to ourselves when I was little. Aside from the minimal social contacts required by a small town—a hello to the recharge-station attendant, a what-do-you-recommend to the visual entertainment vendor—we hardly talked to anyone for days. It was easy to be a hermit in a Midwestern college town and I don’t think I really knew another child until I was five or so. Later she started going to occasional parties, not to bring attention to herself, but to deflect it. Occasionally, I was allowed to visit other children, or play with them in the park; but for some reason none of my fledgling friendships lasted more than a few weeks. Something would always happen and I would be told not to play with Lucy or Ronnie anymore. Sometimes I felt a pang of disappointment, but it soon went away. My mother was sufficient for me; when I was with her I felt no other needs.

Neither did she, apparently. I was a late child, by her generation’s standards. She had waited until her forties to have me because she had wanted some unencumbered adulthood. As always, she got what she wanted. She seemed to have had a halcyon youth—at least in her recounting of things. College, success, boyfriends, working on the cutting edge of the global economy. When she was in her mid-thirties she met my father. Or so she told me when I asked what happened to my daddy. But she wouldn’t tell me much else. She said such things happen all the time, you meet someone and then they disappear. Especially daddies. She promised to tell me more when I grew up, when I was ready. I think I felt dissatisfied by this even when I was a child, but I nodded my head and didn’t inquire further. Anyway, there was plenty of evidence that she was right. So many other kids I knew had no daddies, or had daddies who were not real daddies, although the children tried to treat them as if they were, and to believe they were as good as the real ones would ever have been. Good-enough daddies. Almost real daddies. The nuclear family—the nuke—was dead as the dodo by the time I came along. It had exploded, or imploded, or done both at the same time. I had seen films about mom-dad-kids kinds of units on some of the classic two-dimensional videos, and I knew that such families were either hilariously happy in their togetherness, or lived in sheer torment and hell. I also knew one or two children whose biological parents were actually married, but it’s not as if anyone expected this condition to be permanent. So I didn’t think there was anything abnormal about the absence of a daddy. Once, when somebody’s real uncle or unreal daddy lifted me up and put me on his shoulders, I felt a shadowy longing. So this was what male shoulders were like, straight and steady, this was the feel of masculine energy. Daddy energy . . . But mostly, I didn’t think about my father, didn’t speculate or fantasize. Mostly, the daddy-space was a blank. My mother was enough for me; she supplied all my needs. She focused on me and coddled me and loved me half to death.

“Do you realize how significant that phrase is?” my Adviser has asked me.

Oh yes. I do.

But when I was little, I only knew that she was my mummy, mine, for me. She was quickness, animation, a flash of a beautiful smile, neat deft movements as she combed my hair, or flicked through the pages of some financial report. She was the source of play and pleasure and every gratification. She gave me just about everything I wanted and probably much more than I needed. I had robodolls, cuddly and talkative, of all races and colors, all the virtual videos I could watch and ingenious mind-advancing games in every material and medium. Perhaps too many. My mother thought she had obligations to my mental potential, and she had no doubt as to what that potential might be.

But Mummy was also an enfolding, warm, comfy place I could run to whenever I inflicted some small injury on myself, or felt in the slightest sad or upset. Then she would lift me up and fold me to her till the heat and softness of her body enveloped me and absorbed whatever small unhappiness was inside me into herself, until I felt dozy and fluid, like those amoebae under a microscope that maintain their amorphous shape for a moment and then merge with the organic surround. Or else she would gaze at me intently to see what was the matter, her eyes widening and then narrowing to a pinpoint as they traveled into me and then funneled me up, into her- self. I looked very much like her, even as a child. I was blonde and blue-eyed, with the same broadly spaced eyebrows and high slant of chin; and I felt, as I raised my face to hers, that I was looking at the very image of beauty, but also at an enlarging looking-glass, into which I entered through her eyes and in which I dissolved, becoming indistinguishable from her, becoming her. My unformed, liquid sounds blended with her responding voice, which cooed and put into words everything I couldn’t say. Then I had a languid sense of fullness, of safety. This was love, sweet love. There were times, it is true, when her gaze probed too intently, as if I held some secret she was trying to unriddle, as if I were the mirror which could tell her things. Then her gaze lengthened even more and became abstracted, as if I were inanimate, or a precious object she needed to study. When that happened, I’d turn my head away or try to wriggle out of her arms. Then she’d raise my chin with her finger and say, “Look at me . . . look at me,” and I’d face her directly as if under a spell, and reenter her eyes, and we’d be together again.

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Interviews & Essays

1. How did the idea of writing on such a strange subject occur to you?

I'm not usually a writer who hears voices, or is "taken over" by her subject, but "The Secret" announced itself to me with a voice and the first paragraph all complete. But this was probably because the ideas leading up to these unexpected manifestations had been brewing in my mind for quite a while. The "germ" of the novel was first planted when I started reading -- with awed fascination -- about the new developments in the field of genetics, and the experiments in the manipulation of human organisms to which they were giving rise. These, I thought, were entirely astonishing -- and it seemed to me we weren't astonished enough. So the basic impulse from which "The Secret" arose was a kind of primitive sense of wonder. I wanted to articulate the vexing, profound and eerie questions raised by this new science, or vision, of the human. At the same time, these practically futuristic conundrums merged with some of my own, long-standing preoccupations. So that, when that first paragraph came into my head, spoken in the soft but audible tones that I instantly recognized as belonging to my heroine, I thought, you'd better grab this baby and run...

2. Do you think of "The Secret" as science fiction?

I was recently told I should, because women's sci fi is such an interesting phenomenon and field. But actually no, I distinctly do not, if by science fiction we mean an interest in technological wonders, and the invention of utterly improbable worlds. What I wanted to do in "The Secret" was to use the near future as a plausible extension of the present, and therefore as a way of thinkingabout problems that are very much with us already. But then, the future comes very fast these days, and since I wrote "The Secret," some of the imaginary - or rather, hypothetical - scenarios I envisioned have been turned into realities, or at least actual experiments already.

3. On one level, "The Secret" seems to be an old-fashioned, realistic story...

Well, I suppose that in writing this narrative, I was trying to walk a delicate tightrope. On the one hand, I wanted to give full force to the quantum leap in consciousness that cloning represents. It really is something new under the sun, and its very possibility throws into question the most basic assumptions about our origin and selfhood: that we are of man and woman born, that we are physically, no less than psychologically unique; that, unlike assembly-line products, we are unpredictable and unrepeatable.

At the same time, the genetics revolution returns us to and ups the ante on some very ancient and fundamental questions: What we are made of and where the soul, or psyche resides; what our subjectivity consists of, and how it relates to our bodies; what, in fact, is the human factor in our humanity. And so, I wanted to use cloning as a metaphor for such questions, a way of posing them more sharply or more dramatically.

Then there is the relationship between my young heroine and her mother -- a kind of mother/daughter bond from hell... There, too, cloning seemed to me a kind of eerie realization of certain fears and needs so often present in mother-daughter relationships: identification so total that it may threaten identity, the dread of merging, and the desire to do so. My mother, myself, indeed.

At the same time, I did not want to give up on the possibility of individuation, growth, or love on my heroine's behalf. Such processes of separation and development would undoubtedly be made vastly more difficult by cloning; and yet, their possibility should not be discounted. And perhaps I couldn't bear to deprive my protagonist of her human chances after all.

4. What is your opinion of Dolly the sheep, and of the recent human cloning activity in South Korea?

Alas, poor Dolly. She is dead now, a hardly tragic, but perhaps not insignificant casualty of our Faustian urges. She died of premature aging, and this points to one of the practical dangers of cloning as the technique stands now. But beyond that, I do feel there's something disturbing about the way she was made, and what she represents: the possibility of manufacturing living organisms as if they were inanimate things, for entirely instrumental purposes, and with the possibility of mass production right around the corner. What are such creatures? Are they in fact animals, or just animated objects? I suppose cloning is in a sense an extension of breeding techniques we've been using for a long time now. But at the same time, it is a leap that alters our relationship to nature and indeed the very idea of life.

In answering the second part of the question, though, I must confess that on this score, authorial ego has gotten (at least temporarily) better of ethical concern. The scientist in "The Secret" who creates my heroine is Korean, and so about this, I can't help feeling rather pleasantly prescient. I made him Korean, by the way, not on a whim, but on an informed hunch: I thought that the experiments going on in South Korean labs in the area of cloning looked the most serious and advanced. However, to return to larger issues, I do think there is a great difference between cloning for medical purposes, and creating a full human through this process.

5. To what extent is the book based on research?

Of course I felt I had to do sufficient research to understand the mechanics of cloning, the biological implications, the genetics debate. It was important to get these things right, and aside from reading, I talked to scientists and visited a cellular research lab. But in a sense, this was not, for me, the point. Rather, what I wanted to do was to explore the psychic and psycho-philosophical implications of cloning -- aspects of the problem which are, incidentally, almost entirely missing from the official debates on the subject. The debates concentrate on the medical, sociological and even economic consequences of cloning; but leave out almost entirely questions of its human impact on the cloned pair. What measure of narcissism would be implied in the decision to reproduce oneself exactly? What would be like for a parent to behold a replica of her or his childhood self? How difficult would it be for a parent to distinguish reflection from self, and what kinds of fears, or even unconscious revulsion, might a copied child arouse? And, from the child's perspective, what would it be like for a daughter to realize that she has no biological father at all; that her grandfather is in effect her father; and that her mother is her genetic twin? How will the cloned child bear the knowledge that she was created as an offprint of someone else -- that she is, in effect, an efficiently manufactured product? This is a knowledge that Dolly the sheep was spared -- and which makes all the difference between animal and human cloning. What deep self-doubts about the nature of one's humanity might follow from such awareness, and what disturbing confusion of identities?

6. Do you view THE SECRET as a sort of warning?

I do not think a novel should be a polemic, nor, one hopes, a screed. A novel is a form which allows one to explore aspects of experience with the fullest imaginative force, and without having to come down on one "side" of an issue, or another. I wanted, above all, to contemplate the subjectivity of a cloned person, and what the world would like from within such a self. At the same time, I do think that such an exploration may be in itself a warning; that if we really did take the trouble to imagine the inward, human, affective consequences of cloning, then we might refrain from following our Faustian urges just for once.

And, more broadly - but no less essentially - if the production of life can be effected through mechanical manipulations of sub-microscopic matter, then what does it do to our assumptions about the depth, the dimensions, the mystery of each person? Of course, such assumptions may be based on illusion in the first place - but it is an illusion on which our sense of privileged human preciousness, love, curiosity and discovery has much depended. It is such dilemmas that vexed me and propelled me as I was writing my particular narrative; but it is also such questions, I believe, that we should be aware of, as we enter the brave new world of cloning.

7. You wrote three non-fiction books before "The Secret." Was the process of writing fiction very different?

Very. The process of writing fiction turned out to be both more pleasurable and more anxious than that of non-fiction. Non-fiction carries with it a weight of responsibility: to the facts, to actual people who form part of one's subject, to the material itself (especially if it touches, as mine often has, on somber or even tragic matters). In comparison, fiction has about it a heady freedom, a kind of psychic lightness. It allows you, above all, to play. At the same time, it is that very freedom which can be so nerve-wracking, so positively scary. With each new chapter, I felt I was stepping into an ocean, or a large lake, and trying to draw some firm lines in the water. With each turn of plot, the novel could move in an infinite number of new directions... But slowly, gradually, the text begins to gain its own weight and shape; at some point, one begins (or so I found) to feel a kind of imaginative responsibility to the material which has accumulated: its integrity, its narrative coherence, its emotional truth.

8. How do the themes of the novel connect with your other work?

One reason why the subject of cloning, and the genetic revolution, fascinated me so instantly and so deeply, is because they do in fact converge with some of my longstanding preoccupations, and themes I've explored in my earlier work: the nature of subjectivity and how our identities are constructed; how we tease ourselves into individual being; and how our earliest bonds and the deeper past affect us - and the lack of these as well. For me, such preoccupations emerged from the formative experience of emigration, and its potent lessons about the shaping power of language and culture. But in a different, perhaps more universal valence, here they were again.

9. Did you draw to any extent on personal experience in writing it? E.g. in the rendition of the mother-daughter relationship?

Oddly enough, fiction can allow you access to layers of the psyche which more directly autobiographical writing cannot easily touch. One of the pleasures of writing The Secret was that it allowed me to dip into and draw on those very early (pre-Oedipal, as the shrinks would call them) sources of sensation and feeling that can be intuited only half-consciously, and expressed only metaphorically. This I was dimly aware of as image after image of mother-daughter mirroring, love, mutual reflection, kept coming up from the psyche as if they'd been waiting there all along. Such images are supposedly the ubiquitous stuff of our early psychic life, and if they were autobiographical, they were not really personal. But it was not until I started writing my subsequent book, about the legacy of the Holocaust, and its impact on so-called "second generation," that I realized how much I had been impelled, in writing the novel, by a dilemma which does belong to my specific history: the problem, so familiar to children of survivors, of a kind of existential secondariness -- of coming after great events, and having less claim to significance, attention, or just existential primacy, than parents who had lived through extremity. And so, while the mother in The Secret is distinctly not based on my mother, and while I can tell the reader with a fair degree of assurance that I am not my own mother's clone, some deep vein in the novel was excavated (indirectly and symbolically) from an autobiographical mine.

10. What was the most pleasurable aspect of writing it?

Inventing a plausible near-future world, complete with a brand new line of men's and women's fashions. I still keep hoping that some real-world designer will notice the discreet and ineffable charm of the clothes in which my characters are clad.

There was also a great deal of fun in playing around with a whole panoply of classical myths and fictional archetypes that kept unexpectedly cropping up in my story: Chimeras, grotesques, Echo and Narcissus, automata and Frankensteins; but also, visions of ideal beauty and promised cities. In a sense, this made a great deal of sense, for genetic design has the potential of making real our most far-fetched fictional inventions. But in any case, it was interesting to me to see how fertile such ancient imaginings still were, and how naturally they made their appearance, as I was writing my fable of very old conundrums and a new kind of creation.
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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 21, 2010

    absolutely beautiful, haunting and magical

    Eva Hoffman writes like an angel--that she has proven several times over, in her five non-fiction books. But now she steps into fiction as if into a garment that was meant to fit. Her characters are rich and alive, her descriptions are crystal-clear and the plot is absolutely page-turning and haunting. I'm not sure how much secret of "The Secret" I can give away, but rather than spoiling things I'll just say it touches on genetics and science, on the future, and family, on mother/child bonds and the nature of identity. A beautifully conceived and beautifully written book. --Liz Rosenberg

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 29, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted July 22, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

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