A story is like a letter. Dear You, I’ll say. Just you, without a name. Attaching a name attaches you to the world of fact, which is riskier, more hazardous: who knows what the chances are out there, of survival, yours? I will say you, you, like an old love song. You can mean more than one. You can mean thousands. I’m not in any immediate dancer . . . I’ll pretend you can hear me. But it’s no good, because I know you can’t. (40)
This passage reflects on Offred’s personality. It reveals concern to her listeners—her readers and audience. It reveals remorse and longing—even the mention of an old love song of the time before would lead to the assumption that Offred yearns for the life she had before with her daughter and husband Luke. It reveals her hope that her audience is comprised of thousands of individuals, who will read this story and share the news of this atrocity to others. Finally, it unearths regret. Offred is aware of the fact that her story may never touch the life of another person. She is completely alone in this world, and no one will she be able to relate with about her experiences; no one will ever feel remorse for a tale they have never heard of. Ironic, as well, that the people who do end up reading her memoirs at the very end of the novel and who study such endeavors over a period of time during an educational course find points of this journey humorous. This insensitivity is heightened the analytical tone of the text:
This . . . was unearthed on the site of what was once the city of Bangor , in what, at the time prior to the inception of the Gileadean regime, would have been the state of Maine
Another quote offers the same evidence: “[Offred] appears to have been an educated woman, insofar as a graduate of any North American college of the time may be said to have been educated” (305). The reader feels a sense of outrage and confusion after having felt pain and sadness for Offred and other Handmaid’s throughout the reading experience.
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