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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.
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
Men
Seed
Lust
Greed
Seeds
Broke
Dwindled
Murder
Shrunk
Creation
Fellowship
Times
Mighty
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Tell what is yours to tell. Let others tell what is theirs.
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Though as he'd say, what is 'belief' but a willingness to suspend the negatives?
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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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And consider: it is loss to which everything flows, absence in which everything flowers
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The answers you get from literature depend on the questions you pose.
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Oppression involves a failure of the imagination: the failure to imagine the full humanity of other human beings.
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People cry at weddings for the same reason they cry at happy endings: because they so desperately want to believe in something they know is not credible.
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A voice is a human gift it should be cherished and used, to utter fully human speech as possible. Powerlessness and silence go together.
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Karen wasn't hard, she was soft, too soft. A soft touch. Her hair was soft, her smile was soft, her voice was soft. She was so soft there was no resistance. Hard things sank into her, they went right through her, and if she made a real effort, out the other side. Then she didn't have to see them or hear them, or even touch them.
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There may not be one Truth - there may be several truths - but saying that is not to say that reality doesn't exist.
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The body is so easily damaged, so easily disposed of, water and chemicals is all it is, hardly more to it than a jellyfish drying on sand.
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The truth, it seems, is not just what you find when you open a door: it is itself a door, which the poet is always on the verge of going through.
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Your hand is a warm stone I hold between two words.
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So much for endings. Beginnings are always more fun. True connoisseurs, however, are known to favor the stretch in between, since it's the hardest to do anything with. That's about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are just one thing after another, a what and a what and a what.
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You can think clearly only with your clothes on.
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It's clear, it's fresh, like a mint candy.
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The cemetery has ... an inscription: 'Though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death I will Fear No Evil, For Thou Art With Me.' Yes, it does feel deceptively safer with two but Thou is a slippery character. Every Thou I've known has had a way of going missing.
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To take that risk, to offer life and remain alive, open yourself like this and become whole.
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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.
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