Quote

Today on the way home, it snows. Big, soft caressing flakes fall onto our skin like cold moths the air fills with feathers.

Margaret Atwood

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Margaret Atwood
Age: 85
Born: 1939
Born: November 18
Essayist
Inventor
Literary Critic
Non-Fiction Writer
Novelist
Pedagogue
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Ottawa (Ontario)
Margaret Eleanor Atwood
Home
Soft
Today
Snow
Caressing
Way
Skin
Snows
Like
Skins
Flakes
Air
Moths
Cold
Fills
Bigs
Feathers
Fall
Onto

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Then sail, my fine lady, on the billowing wave - The water below is as dark as the grave, And maybe you'll sink in your little blue boat - It's hope, and hope only, that keeps us afloat
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What we share may be a lot like a traffic accident but we get one another. We are survivors of each other. We have been shark to one another, but also lifeboat. That counts for something.
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Though as he'd say, what is 'belief' but a willingness to suspend the negatives?
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But maybe boredom is erotic, when women do it, for men.
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art happens. It happens when you have the craft and the vocation and are waiting for something else, something extra, or maybe not waiting in any case it happens. It's the extra rabbit coming out of the hat, the one you didn't put there.
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The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read.
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This afternoon held that special quality of mournful emptiness I've connected with late Sunday afternoons ever since childhood: the feeling of having nothing to do.
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Repeat reading for me shares a few things with hot-water bottles and thumbsucking: comfort, familiarity, the recurrence of the expected.
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There is so much going on all over the world that it's impossible for one person to keep up. And I can't.
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I suppose these deadlines we set for ourselves are really a way of saying we appreciate time, and want to use all of it.
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I want to be held and told my name. I want to be valued, in ways that I am not I want to be more than valuable. I repeat my former name remind myself of what I once could do, how others saw me. I want to steal something.
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Victorian literature was my subject at Harvard.
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Amazing how the heart clutches at anything familiar, whimpering Mine!Mine!
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Waste not want not. I am not being wasted. Why do I want?
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Without the protection of surliness and levity, all children would be crushed by the past—the past of others, loaded onto their shoulders. Selfishness is their saving grace.
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I was born in the Ottawa General Hospital right after the Gray Cup Football Game in 1939. Six months later, I was backpacked into the Quebec bush. I grew up in and out of the bush, in and out of Ottawa, Sault Ste. Marie and Toronto.
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Why do men feel threatened by women?
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Don't misunderstand me. I am not scoffing at goodness, which is far more difficult to explain than evil, and far more complicated. But sometimes it's hard to put up with.
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In view of the fading animals the proliferation of sewers and fears the sea clogging, the air nearing extinction we should be kind, we should take warning, we should forgive each other Instead we are opposite, we touch as though attacking, the gifts we bring even in good faith maybe warp in our hands to implements, to manoeuvres
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A man is just a woman's strategy for making other women.
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