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I lie on the floor, washed by nothing and hanging on. I cry at night. I am afraid of hearing voices, or a voice. I have come to the edge, of the land. I could get pushed over.
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
Night
Edges
Come
Hearing
Washed
Nothing
Cry
Pushed
Afraid
Hanging
Land
Sanity
Lying
Floor
Voice
Voices
Fear
Edge
More quotes by Margaret Atwood
Your hand is a warm stone I hold between two words.
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If a stranger taps you on the ass and says, How's the little lady today! you will probably cringe. But if he's an American, he's only being friendly.
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There is no fool like an educated fool.
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You can’t buy it, but it has a price,” said Oryx. “Everything has a price.
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Nothing is more difficult than to understand the dead, I've found but nothing is more dangerous than to ignore them.
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I'm working on my own life story. I don't mean I'm putting it together no, I'm taking it apart. If you'd wanted the narrative line you should have asked earlier, when I still knew everything and was more than willing to tell. That was before I discovered the virtues of scissors, the virtues of matches.
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There's always something to occupy the inquiring mind.
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The moment of betrayal is the worst, the moment when you know beyond any doubt that you've been betrayed: that some other human being has wished you that much evil
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The reader cannot see into your heart. He will know only what you tell him. Make the blind see your words. Make the hard-hearted feel. Make the deaf hear.
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The farther north you go, the fewer fruits and vegetables there are. What kind of apple trees do you suggest the Inuit get their apples from? And how much oil is expended transporting such things out there? It's an equation.
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Victorian literature was my subject at Harvard.
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You need a certain amount of nerve to be a writer.
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But I began then to think of time as having a shape, something you could see, like a series of liquid transparencies, one laid on top of another.
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Blondes are like white mice, you only find them in cages. They wouldn’t last long in nature. They’re too conspicuous.
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My own view of myself was that I was small and innocuous, a marshmallow compared to the others. I was a poor shot with a 22, for instance, and not very good with an ax. It took me a long time to figure out that the youngest in a family of dragons is still a dragon from the point of view of those who find dragons alarming.
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But people will do anything rather than admit that their lives have no meaning. No use, that is. No plot.
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I didn't much like it, this grudge-holding against the past.
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So much better to travel than to arrive.
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She had no images of this love. She could offer no anecdotes. It was a belief rather than a memory.
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Maybe sadness was a kind of hunger, she thought. Maybe the two went together.
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