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The objects I chose were designed to hold something, but I didn't fill them up. They remained empty. They were little symbolic shrines to thirst.
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
Hold
Remained
Didn
Symbolic
Littles
Chose
Little
Thirst
Something
Designed
Fill
Empty
Objects
Shrines
More quotes by Margaret Atwood
I don't want to look at something that determines me so completely.
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The scroll is coming back (Twitter is a scroll.)
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How shrunk, how dwindled, in our times Creation's mighty seed - For Man has broke the Fellowship With murder, lust, and greed.
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Can I be blamed for wanting a real body, to put my arms around? Without it I too am disembodied. I can listen to my own heartbeat against the bedsprings...but there’s something dead about it, something deserted.
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Extreme good, extreme evil: the abilities required are similar.
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It used to be that your bloodlines dictated who you were. But the U.S. became the land of the self-made man, in which not only did you make a fortune but you could make up everything else about yourself as well. You move into a new town with a spurious pedigreed background and you just make yourself up.
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The myth that everyone once read great literature is just a myth.
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Little girls are cute and small only to adults. To one another they are not cute. They are life-sized.
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I am rather saddened at the end of a book. I think most writers find this. It's like a friend departing on a voyage.
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Sons branch out, but one woman leads to another.
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This is the solstice, the still point of the sun, its cusp and midnight, the year's threshold and unlocking, where the past lets go of and becomes the future the place of caught breath.
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Maybe the life I think I'm living is a paranoid delusion...Sanity is a valuable possession I hoard it the way people once hoarded money. I save it, so I will have enough, when the time comes.
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Thy only authentic ending is the one provided here: John and Mary die, John and Mary die, John and Mary die.
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Perhaps they were looking for passion perhaps they delved into this book as into a mysterious parcel - a gift box at the bottom of which, hidden in layers of rustling tissue paper, lay something they'd always longed for but couldn't ever grasp.
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I stand on the corner, pretending I am a tree.
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Storytelling is a very old human skill that gives us an evolutionary advantage. If you can tell young people how you kill an emu, acted out in song or dance, or that Uncle George was eaten by a croc over there, don't go there to swim, then those young people don't have to find out by trial and error.
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Her glass wings are gone.
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You aren't sick & unhappy only alive & stuck with it.
Margaret Atwood
No male writer is likely to be asked to sit on a panel addressing itself to the special problems of a male writer.
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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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