Review of Sarah Bernstein's Study for Obedience

Sarah Bernstein, a Canadian writer now settled in the Scottish Highlands, has quickly become a name to watch in modern literature. Her first novel, The Coming Bad Days (2021), tackled loneliness and existential questions, while her poetry collection Now Comes the Lightning (2015) showed her gift for haunting prose. In 2023, she was named one of Granta’s Best of Young British Novelists, a nod to her unique voice. Her second novel, Study for Obedience (2023), made waves by landing on the Booker Prize shortlist and winning the Scotiabank Giller Prize. It is a quiet yet powerful book that digs into the messy realities of submission and blame.

The story follows an unnamed woman who moves to a remote northern town to look after her brother’s house after his marriage falls apart. The book’s core idea is that obedience, often seen as a sign of weakness, can carry a hidden strength, showing how going along with expectations can both trap and empower us. It is like a wake-up call, making you see the ground reality of how society pins blame on outsiders while revealing the cost of always playing catch-up to others’ demands. Everyone should read this because it forces you to think about the silent ways we conform and how that shapes who we are. In a world full of divisions, this book feels like a quiet nudge to question what we accept without a fight.

The novel starts with a chilling line that sets the mood: “It was the year the sow eradicated her piglets. It was a swift and menacing time.” (Bernstein, 2023, p. 1). The protagonist, a woman without a name, arrives in a far-off northern country to serve as her brother’s housekeeper. His grand house sits “at the end of a long dirt track and in a stand of trees, on a hill above a small, sparsely inhabited town” (p. 2). As the youngest in a big family, she is used to putting others first, admitting “I smiled as I did the bidding of others” (p. 7). Her brother, who “had done very well for himself in that regard” (p. 3), leaves for a trip soon after, leaving her alone in the house.

The book argues that obedience is not just about following orders; it can quietly shift power dynamics. The protagonist’s daily life—cleaning, cooking, and running errands—shows this, but so does the hostility she faces in town. She does not speak the local language well, and people react with fear, shielding their kids or making signs of the cross when she is around. “I knew they were right to hold me responsible” (p. 29), she says, taking the blame for strange events like a potato crop failing or cows acting wild. These incidents build the idea that outsiders get scapegoated when things go wrong, and she starts believing she is at fault.

Bernstein hints at the protagonist’s Jewish background, tying her personal struggles to a history of persecution. “An obscure though reviled people who had been dogged across borders and put into pits” (p. 42) points to this, connecting her obedience to a deeper legacy of survival. Before her brother leaves, she cares for him obsessively, noting “I did like to dress him” (p. 15), a habit rooted in “reorient all my desires in the service of another” (p. 16). As more disasters hit—a ewe loses her lamb, a dog has a false pregnancy—the townsfolk see her as a curse.

The novel suggests that obedience can become a kind of quiet rebellion. The protagonist makes small twig dolls and leaves them on doorsteps, not fully aware of why, but it stirs up the town’s fears. “It seemed to me that my obedience had itself taken on a kind of mysterious power. And if I had been granted this power, by some grace, against my wishes, must I not then make use of it in some way?” (p. 87). This is the heart of the book’s argument: the powerless can unsettle others without raising a fist. It also points fingers at everyone, saying we’re all part of the problem: “Every single one of us on this ruined earth exhibited a perfect obedience to our local forces of gravity, daily choosing the path of least resistance, which while entirely and understandably human was at the same time the most barbaric, the most abominable course of action. So, listen. I am not blameless. I played my part.” (p. 112).

The story digs into history to back this up. “It was the late 20th century. What did we have left? A prayer book, some scraps of song, a history lesson beginning with devastation.” (p. 45) ties obedience to surviving tough times. As she wanders the woods, feeling like an outsider, she thinks, “I was not from the place, and so I was not anything.” (p. 63). When her brother returns sick, her caregiving ramps up, but so does her sense of being stuck. She sees the locals’ history as “whose history I knew was so entwined with mine” (p. 98), calling it “the closest thing to an inheritance I could be said to have” (p. 99).

Instead of clear answers, the book offers reflection. The protagonist tries joining local farm tasks, hoping to fit in, but it only makes things worse. She has always been a “faithful and perennial servant” (p. 21) to her family, and now to the town, but they push her away. Her big realization comes when she says, “I determined to eradicate my pride and my will.” (p. 134). Yet, this choice fuels something darker, like her doll-making, which quietly shakes the town. The story does not wrap up neatly; it fades out, leaving you thinking, as she vows to “keep going, to keep doing what I had always done, to keep on being faithful” (p. 149).

The book’s biggest strength is its mood and depth. Bernstein’s writing is like a quiet storm—simple but heavy with meaning. Everyday acts, like “I did like to dress him” (p. 15), feel creepy because of how she describes them, showing how care can slide into control. The way she weaves in history, like “an obscure though reviled people who had been dogged across borders and put into pits” (p. 42), makes the story feel bigger, like it is speaking to centuries of struggle. It is the kind of writing that reminds you of authors like Virginia Woolf, where every word pulls you deeper into someone’s mind.

Another strong point is how the protagonist’s voice keeps you guessing. When she says, “I knew they were right to hold me responsible” (p. 29), you are not sure if she is guilty or just beaten down by blame. This makes you think about real-life issues, like how people get scapegoated for things they did not cause—think caste tensions or communal divides. The books like a mirror, showing how we sometimes buy into the blame others heap on us.

But it is not perfect. The vagueness can frustrate you if you like clear stories. The town and characters have no names, which makes it feel universal but also distant, like you are floating above the action. Compared to something like Toni Morrison’s Beloved, where the place feels alive, this book’s setting can feel too abstract. Also, it does not dig deep into all angles of oppression. It talks about gender and ethnicity, but class or disability barely gets a mention. For example, the protagonist’s obedience comes from family dynamics, but there is little on how money or poverty might push someone to act that way. A book like Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation uses a similar passive character but lands sharper punches because it is more direct.

Still, the book’s a gem for those who love thoughtful stories. It is not for someone who wants a fast plot, but if you enjoy chewing over big ideas, it is must-read. It adds something fresh to conversations about who we are and how we resist.

Why Indian Youth Readers Must Read This Book

If you are a young Indian juggling board exam, JEE prep, or family expectations, this book will hit you hard. The protagonist’s habit of “I smiled as I did the bidding of others” (p. 7) feels like every student cramming for marks, memorizing answers without asking why. India’s education system, with its focus on rote learning, often leaves little room for thinking for yourself. This book is a wake-up call, showing how always playing catch-up to what parents or society want can make you lose sight of who you are, just like the protagonist deciding to “eradicate my pride and my will” (p. 134).

The job market’s another pressure cooker. With so many chasing so few jobs, it is easy to feel like the protagonist, blamed for things beyond your control, as she says: “I knew they were right to hold me responsible” (p. 29). Society’s rules—get a “good” degree, marry the “right” person, honor the family—can feel like chains, much like her role as a “faithful and perennial servant” (p. 21). But the book’s big idea, that obedience can hide a kind of power, is inspiring. When she thinks “my obedience had itself taken on a kind of mysterious power” (p. 87), it is like those moments when young Indians start a YouTube channel, push for mental health talks, or launch a startup against all odds. It is about finding ways to push back quietly, even when the system wants you to stay in line.

This book’s a nudge for Indian youth to question the script—whether it is exam pressure or societal norms—and find their own voice in a world that often demands silence.

Study for Obedience is a book that stays with you, like a quiet conversation you keep replaying. Bernstein spins a tale that is both unsettling and thought-provoking, making you see how obedience can trap us but also set us free in unexpected ways. For Indian youth, it is a mirror to the pressures of conformity and a guide to carving your own path. It is the kind of story that pushes you to question the ground reality of what you have always accepted, leaving you with more questions than answers, but in the best way possible.