Into The Forest: A Novel by Jean HeglandInto The Forest: A Novel by Jean Hegland

Into The Forest: A Novel

byJean Hegland

Paperback | September 1, 1998

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Set in the near-future, Into the Forest is a powerfully imagined novel that focuses on the relationship between two teenage sisters living alone in their Northern California forest home.

Over 30 miles from the nearest town, and several miles away from their nearest neighbor, Nell and Eva struggle to survive as society begins to decay and collapse around them. No single event precedes society's fall. There is talk of a war overseas and upheaval in Congress, but it still comes as a shock when the electricity runs out and gas is nowhere to be found. The sisters consume the resources left in the house, waiting for the power to return. Their arrival into adulthood, however, forces them to reexamine their place in the world and their relationship to the land and each other.

Reminiscent of Margaret Atwood's A Handmaid's Tale, Into the Forest is a mesmerizing and thought-provoking novel of hope and despair set in a frighteningly plausible near-future America.
Jean Hegland is the author of The Life Within: Celebration of a Pregnancy.  She lives with her husband and three children in northern California on fifty-five acres of second-growth forest.  She is at work on her next novel, which explores the issues of motherhood.From the Hardcover edition.
Title:Into The Forest: A NovelFormat:PaperbackDimensions:256 pages, 8.2 × 5.1 × 0.6 inPublished:September 1, 1998Publisher:Random House Publishing GroupLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0553379615

ISBN - 13:9780553379617

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Rated 3 out of 5 by from Liked it but didn't love it. The story had a steady pace and the characters were generally likeable but nothing in particular stood out about this book. It's a good read for some light entertainment but it's not something that will stay with you forever. It had a slightly different take on the post apocalypse genre in that the girls mostly don't notice it at first and then are very secluded and don't face much of what must be going on. There was a lot less post apocalyptic roving biker gang and a lot more reading books and learning to feed themselves. It's not a book I would go out of my way to recommend but I also wouldn't tell people to not read either. As a warning to potential readers there is a rape scene and an act of incest (the two are separate events).
Date published: 2017-06-20
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Loved It! This was a great book. Well written. Thought provoking. The lives of two sisters as they struggle to survive after some sort of world calamity. Very, very interesting. The only disappointment I had was the ending. Maybe it was just because I was not expecting it! Well worth the read!
Date published: 2017-05-09
Rated 2 out of 5 by from was not sure what to expect I read that this is going to be coming out as a movie with Ellen Paige so I thought I would read it. It's only about 200 pages. The first half was slow moving but the second half picked up. However, in my opinion not in a good direction. I had no idea what it was supposed to be about which may have been a large part of the problem. But I read a couple parts that actually made me roll my eyes and think "oh really, Come on now." For me personally this book was just too 'out there'.
Date published: 2015-02-21
Rated 5 out of 5 by from A very moving story I found this book to be very moving. It first captured my attention as a story of a family living on the fringe of society. This turns out to be what saves them as the two sisters turn to each other when society no longer exists. It is a very engrossing book and I still think about it, months after reading it.
Date published: 1999-09-24
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Into the Forest Have you ever wondered what you would do if the world shut down? If you couldn't rely on anyone for electricity, running water, gas or the telephone? This book follows a year in the lives of two sisters facing just such a crisis. Together, they struggle with dwindling food supplies, predators (both animal and human) and the loss of hope of ever returning to their former bright lives. A fascinating and interesting novel.
Date published: 1999-04-19
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Not your average millenium story I was given this book at a book club meeting with the endorsement that the person giving it to me had read it twice in 48 hours. I read it in one day, and went back to re-read the last third again. The book is not just well-written, but well-planned so that the story is plausible and supported by the characters' actions. Although it deals with the end of society and survival in a chaotic world, the story is ultimately about two sisters and the survival of their relationship.
Date published: 1999-04-01

Read from the Book

It's strange, writing these first words, like leaning down into the musty stillness of a well and seeing my face peer up from the water--so small and from such an unfamiliar angle I'm startled to realize the reflection is my own.  After all this time a pen feels stiff and awkward in my hand.  And I have to admit that this notebook, with its wilderness of blank pages, seems almost more threat than gift--for what can I write here that it will not hurt to remember? You could write about now, Eva said, about this time. This morning I was so certain I would use this notebook for studying that I had to work to keep from scoffing at her suggestion.  But now I see she may be right.  Every subject I think of--from economics to meteorology, from anatomy to geography to history--seems to circle around on itself, to lead me unavoidably back to now, to here, today. Today is Christmas Day.  I can't avoid that.  We've crossed the days off the calendar much too conscientiously to be wrong about the date, however much we might wish we were.  Today is Christmas Day, and Christmas Day is one more day to live through, one more day to be endured so that someday soon this time will be behind us. By next Christmas this will all be over, and my sister and I will have regained the lives we are meant to live.  The electricity will be back, the phones will work.  Planes will fly above our clearing once again.  In town there will be food in the stores and gas at the service stations.  Long before next Christmas we will have indulged in everything we now lack and crave--soap and shampoo, toilet paper and milk, fresh fruit and meat.  My computer will be running, Eva's CD player will be working.  We'll be listening to the radio, reading the newspaper, using the Internet.  Banks and schools and libraries will have reopened, and Eva and I will have left this house where we now live like shipwrecked orphans.  She will be dancing with the corps of the San Francisco Ballet, I'll have finished my first semester at Harvard, and this wet, dark day the calendar has insisted we call Christmas will be long, long over. "Merry semi-pagan, slightly literary, and very commercial Christmas," our father would always announce on Christmas morning, when, long before the midwinter dawn, Eva and I would team up in the hall outside our parents' bedroom.  Jittery with excitement, we would plead with them to get up, to come downstairs, to hurry, while they yawned, insisted on donning bathrobes, on washing their faces and brushing their teeth, even--if our father was being particularly infuriating--on making coffee. After the clutter and laughter of present-opening came the midday dinner we used to take for granted, phone calls from distant relatives, Handel's Messiah issuing triumphantly from the CD player.  At some point during the afternoon the four of us would take a walk down the dirt road that ends at our clearing.  The brisk air and green forest would clear our senses and our palates, and by the time we reached the bridge and were ready to turn back, our father would have inevitably announced, "This is the real Christmas present, by god--peace and quiet and clean air.  No neighbors for four miles, and no town for thirty-two.  Thank Buddha, Shiva, Jehovah, and the California Department of Forestry we live at the end of the road!" Later, after night had fallen and the house was dark except for the glow of bulbs on the Christmas tree, Mother would light the candles of the nativity carousel, and we would spend a quiet moment standing together before it, watching the shepherds, wise men, and angels circle around the little holy family. "Yep," our father would say, before we all wandered off to nibble at the turkey carcass and cut slivers off the cold plum pudding, "that's the story.  Could be better, could be worse.  But at least there's a baby at the center of it." This Christmas there's none of that. There are no strings of lights, no Christmas cards.  There are no piles of presents, no long-distance phone calls from great-aunts and second cousins, no Christmas carols. There is no turkey, no plum pudding, no stroll to the bridge with our parents, no Messiah. This year Christmas is nothing but another white square on a calendar that is almost out of dates, an extra cup of tea, a few moments of candlelight, and, for each of us, a single gift. Why do we bother? Three years ago--when I was fourteen and Eva fifteen--I asked that same question one rainy night a week before Christmas.  Father was grumbling over the number of cards he still had to write, and Mother was hidden in her workroom with her growling sewing machine, emerging periodically to take another batch of cookies from the oven and prod me into washing the mixing bowls. "Nell, I need those dishes done so I can start the pudding before I go to bed," she said as she closed the oven door on the final sheet of cookies. "Okay," I muttered, turning the next page of the book in which I was immersed. "Tonight, Nell," she said. "Why are we doing this?" I demanded, looking up from my book in irritation. "Because they're dirty," she answered, pausing to hand me a warm gingersnap before she swept back to the mysteries of her sewing. "Not the dishes," I grumbled. "Then what, Pumpkin?" asked my father as he licked an  envelope and emphatically crossed another name off his list. "Christmas.  All this mess and fuss and we aren't even really Christians." "Goddamn right we aren't," said our father, laying down his pen, bounding up from the table by the front window, already warming to the energy of his own talk. "We're not Christians, we're capitalists," he said. "Everybody in this whangdanged country is a capitalist, whether he likes it or not.  Everyone in this country is one of the world's most voracious consumers, using resources at a rate twenty times greater than that of anyone else on this poor earth.  And Christmas is our golden opportunity to pick up the pace." When he saw I was turning back to my book, he added, "Why are we doing Christmas?  Beats me.  Tell you what--let's quit.  Throw in the towel.  I'll drive into town tomorrow and return the gifts. We'll give the cookies to the chickens and write all our friends and relations and explain we've given up Christmas for Lent.  It's a shame to waste my vacation, though," he continued in mock sadness. "I know." He snapped his fingers and ducked as though an idea had just struck him on the back of the head.  "We'll replace the beams under the utility room.  Forget those dishes, Nell, and find me the jack." I glared at him, hating him for half a second for the effortless way he deflected my barbs and bad temper.  I huffed into the kitchen, grabbed a handful of cookies, and wandered upstairs to hide in my bedroom with my book. Later I could hear him in the kitchen, washing the dishes I had ignored and singing at the top of his voice, "We three kings of oil and tar, tried to smoke a rubber cigar. It was loaded, and it exploded, higher than yonder star." The next year even I wouldn't have dared to question Christmas. Mother was sick, and we all clung to everything that was bright and sweet and warm, as though we thought if we ignored the shadows, they would vanish into the brilliance of hope.  But the following spring the cancer took her anyway, and last Christmas my sister and I did our best to bake and wrap and sing in a frantic effort to convince our father--and ourselves--that we could be happy without her. I thought we were miserable last Christmas.  I thought we were miserable because our mother was dead and our father had grown distant and silent.  But there were lights on the tree and a turkey in the oven.  Eva was Clara in the Redwood Ballet's performance of The Nutcracker, and I had just received the results of my Scholastic Aptitude Tests, which were good enough--if I did okay on the College Board Achievement Tests--to justify the letter I was composing to the Harvard Admissions Committee. But this year all that is either gone or in abeyance.  This year Eva and I celebrate only because it's less painful to admit that today is Christmas than to pretend it isn't. It's hard to come up with a present for someone when there is no store in which to buy it, when there is little privacy in which to make it, when everything you own, every bean and grain of rice, each spoon and pen and paper clip, is also owned by the person to whom you want to give a gift. I gave Eva a pair of her own toe shoes.  Two weeks ago I snuck the least battered pair from the closet in her studio and renovated them as best I could, working on them in secret while she was practicing.  With the last drops of our mother's spot remover, I cleaned the tattered satin.  I restitched the leather soles with monofilament from our father's tackle box.  I soaked the mashed toe boxes in a mixture of water and wood glue, did my best to reshape them, hid them behind the stove to dry, and then soaked and shaped and dried them again and again.  Finally I darned the worn satin at the tips of the toes so that she could get a few more hours of use from them by first dancing on the web of stitches I had sewn. She gasped when she opened the box and saw them. "I don't know if they're any good," I said.  "They're probably way too soft.  I had no idea what I was doing." But while I was still protesting, she flung her arms around me. We clung together for a long second and then we both leapt back. These days our bodies carry our sorrows as though they were bowls brimming with water.  We must always be careful; the slightest jolt or unexpected shift and the water will spill and spill and spill. Eva's gift to me was this notebook. "It's not a computer," she said, as I lifted it from its wrinkled wrapping paper, recycled from some birthday long ago and not yet sacrificed as fire-starter.  "But it's all blank, every page." "Blank paper!" I marveled.  "Where on earth did you get it?" "I found it behind my dresser.  It must have fallen back there years ago.  I thought you could use it to write about this time.  For our grandchildren or something." Right now, grandchildren seem less likely than aliens from Mars, and when  I first lifted the stained cardboard cover and flipped through these pages,  slightly musty, and blank except for their scaffolding of lines, I have to admit  I was thinking more about studying for the Achievement Tests than about  chronicling this time.  And yet it feels good to write.  I miss the quick click  of my computer keys and the glow of the screen, but tonight this pen feels like  Plaza wine in my hand, and already the lines that lead these words down the  page seem more like the warp of our mother's loom and less like the bars I had  first imagined them to be.  Already I see how much there is to say.   

Bookclub Guide

1) Into The Forest seems to convey that the stripped-down life of a hunter-gatherer would be better for us as a species. What Nell and Eva do is clearly right for them. Would it be right for people in general? For women? Is it a tenable ideal for any but the very young, very fit, and very adaptable?2) Does the lifestyle the sisters adopt in Into The Forest imply or require an abandonment of the whole notion of "advanced civilization?"3) The Women's Review of Books said of Into The Forest: "Cultural trauma forces the heroines to inhabit and regard their world in radical new ways, [as] recipients of wisdom they did not want but are better off for having." Do you agree with this? Why or why not?4) How would you answer the question raised by this novel and posed in The Sunday Oregonian: "Where are we heading, and do we know how to survive with our humanity intact if we continue in this direction?"5) Before razing the house in which they had spent their entire lives and turning to the forest for all their necessities, Nell chooses three books to take with her: Native Plants of Northern California for Eva since it may have already saved her life; a book of stories of those who had lived in the forest for Burl; and the encyclopedia's index for herself. In choosing the index she says, "I could not save all the stories, could not hope to preserve all the information—that was too vast, too disparate, perhaps even too dangerous. But I could take the encyclopedia's index, could try to keep that master list of all that had once been made or told or understood." If you could take only one item from your current existence into the future, and that one item was a book, what would you choose and why? Why do you think that Hegland would choose to describe the retaining of information as "too dangerous?"6) Some of the most poignant moments of the story are found in minor details. Reading Into The Forest will forever change the way you think about a teabag, a scrap of paper, a metronome, an acorn, or a chocolate kiss candy. It will forever change your thinking about dreams and days of the week. Which of these affected you most? What other examples struck your sensibilities?7) Above all, Into The Forest is a story about the boundaries and possibilities of sisterhood. Do you feel a comparable story could have been written about a relationship between a brother and sister or two brothers?8) What kind of childhood do you think Eva's baby will have? If technology and society were to return to advanced states, how might the child adapt to leaving the forest?9) If your "technologically-based" lifestyle were to evolve into a "nature-based" lifestyle, how do you think you would survive? What would you enjoy? What conveniences would you most miss?

From Our Editors

This deeply felt story of two sisters struggling to survive amid the collapse of technology and society is at once a classic tale of mythic proportions--and a modern myth with a timely message. "Beautifully written and often profoundly moving".--"San Francisco Chronicle".

Editorial Reviews

Praise for Jean Hegland's Into the Forest "[A] beautifully written and often profoundly moving novel." --San Francisco Chronicle "A work of extraordinary power, insight and lyricism, Into the Forest is both an urgent warning and a passionate celebration of life and love." --Riane Eisler, author of The Chalice and the Blade *"From the first page, the sense of crisis and the lucid, honest voice of the...narrator pull the reader in....A truly admirable addition to a genre defined by the very high standards of George Orwell's 1984." --Publishers Weekly,starred review "Beautifully written." --Kirkus Reviews "This beautifully written story captures the essential nature of the sister bond: the fierce struggle to be true to one's own self, only to learn that true strength comes from what they are able to share together." --Carol Saline, co-author of Sisters "Jean Hegland's sense of character is firm, warm, and wise....[A] fine first novel." --John Keeble, author of Yellowfish