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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.
Margaret Atwood
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Margaret Atwood
Age: 84
Born: 1939
Born: November 18
Essayist
Inventor
Literary Critic
Non-Fiction Writer
Novelist
Pedagogue
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Ottawa (Ontario)
Margaret Eleanor Atwood
Children
Onto
Would
Shoulders
Saving
Protection
Grace
Levity
Others
Loaded
Past
Crushed
Without
Selfishness
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Each form has its pluses and its minuses.
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This above all, to refuse to be a victim.
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When things are really dismal, you can laugh, or you can cave in completely.
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Where do the words go when we have said them?
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As all historians know, the past is a great darkness, and filled with echoes.
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I wish you good writing and good luck. Even if you've already done the good writing, you'll still need the good luck. It's a shark-filled lagoon out there. Cross your fingers and watch your back.
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I think the book you always like best is the one you're about to write.
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We've learned to see the world in gasps.
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You can’t buy it, but it has a price,” said Oryx. “Everything has a price.
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He doesn't know which is worse, a past he can't regain or a present that will destroy him if he looks at it too clearly. Then there's the future. Sheer vertigo.
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Debt is part of the human condition. Civilization is based on exchanges - on gifts, trades, loans - and the revenges and insults that come when they are not paid back.
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I walk away from him. It's enormously pleasing to me, this walking away. It's like being able to make people appear and vanish, at will.
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So that’s what art is, for the artist,” said Crake. “An empty drainpipe. An amplifier. A stab at getting laid.
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I sometimes felt as if these marks on my body were a kind of code, which blossomed, then faded, like invisible ink held to a candle. But if they were a code, who held the key to it? I was sand, I was snow — written on, rewritten, smoothed over.
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All observations of life are harsh, because life is. I lament that fact, but I cannot change it.
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Jimmy had been full of himself back then, thinks Snowman with indulgence and a little envy. He’d been unhappy too, of course. It went without saying, his unhappiness. He’d put a lot of energy into it.
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Do back exercises. Pain is distracting.
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It made him feel invisible—not that he wanted to feel anything else.
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It's evening, one of those gray water-color washes, like liquid dust.
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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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