Reviewing “The Giver,” by Lois Lowry has been on my list for a long time. But I have put it off. I think one reason is because it is such a significant book for its ideas and its precedence in dystopian literature for youth. I had to do justice to the teachers who required reading it and the children to whom it was assigned. And also, I wasn’t sure how to cover it properly. I didn’t read it as a child, but only as an adult. I couldn’t decide whether I enjoyed it all or just parts of it. So I let it sit. And then picked it up and read it again for fresh perspective.
Here is the warning: Spoilers ahead. I’m not just going to hint at the events and then say, “Go read this!” If you want that, you can read the back cover.
It’s a short little book, only 180 pages, and the messages aren’t complicated. When a civilization gives the authorities permission and power to make life fair, equal, safe, and predictable, the end result is that choice is taken away. And the unfolding of what that really means is why the book is gripping.
Jonas is an eleven-year-old boy in a family group. He has one little sister. That is what is allowed. It matches the available food supply and ensures a stable population. One boy and one girl. They have an enviable manner of relating to each other, the parents kind and nurturing, understanding and guiding. Jonas is nearing his 12th birthday, his coming-of-age ceremony, when he will be treated like an adult in the community. He will be assigned his job, the one he will do for the rest of his life. But he is worried. What if he doesn’t like his assignment? Soothing assurances that he will are very believable. His youth has been spent trying out all possibilities, and the elders have been paying close attention. Who wouldn’t want to have someone slot you into exactly what is right for you? Who doesn’t remember the agony of having to figure out “what I want to be when I grow up?” The reader accepts this. And continues to find out all the other choices that have been taken away from the people with the goal of peace and comfort and equality.
Spouses are carefully matched and then assigned. Their purpose is to become a family group. After the children are raised, there is no purpose to their union, so they each go their separate ways to live in community with other childless adults. The babies are likewise applied for and assigned. This situation ensures that there are no connections, no memories passed down through generations, as if the present is all there is.
At his (and all the other 12 year-olds) birthday ceremony, Jonas finds out that he has been selected for a very rare position, a Receiver of Memories, to eventually replace the current Receiver, who is old. These memories, his own plus the collective memories of the entire community only exist in his head, and he must pass them on to the next Receiver before he dies. The memories might be vital for important decisions the elders might need to make, though apparently being summoned for advice is exceedingly rare. When Jonas asks his name, what he should call him, the man replies, “The Giver.”
Over their sessions, Jonas learns about pain, love, death, beauty, and family, things that have been traded away in exchange for security and equality. He would like to share what he has found out, see if anyone else would rather have choices. But it is forbidden to speak of what he learns, and when he tries to carefully broach the subject, he is rebuffed. No one is interested in a seeing things a different way.
There is a sinister element that winds around their lives, clouded by a euphemism. “Released.” Such a pleasant term, such a good exchange for when it's time to give up life in the community. Or when someone just doesn't fit in. Of course, the reader knows what that really means, and Jonas’s turning point comes when he realizes it. And when it comes so close to home that he is horrified and repelled, he must act. He must leave.
It can be seductive to consider the offer of peace and comfort in exchange for control and self-autonomy. It can start small. And some of these exchanges are necessary for societies to function. If, after the tipping point, one could turn around and view what’s been lost, then perhaps they would protest, rebel and take back their free humanity. But if the memories are gone, if the experiences aren’t there, to remember what “snow” is, or “grandparents” are, then it won’t happen.
I wasn’t happy about the ending. There is no other way to interpret it than it is ambivalent. And of course we want to know, what really happened‽ (My favorite punctuation—the interrobang) There is apparently a sequel that seems to take care of that, but I think the most honest way of explaining an ending is to just use what is provided in the book. And if I had to pick the optimistic or pessimistic ending, I’m afraid I’d have to go with the sad ending. But you can choose the other if you wish!
I got this book at the thrift store. It was a school library discard with the pocket and the check-out card still in it. It was charming to see the signatures of all the children who had read it over a four year span.
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