It’s no coincidence this is a used furniture warehouse. I enter with you and become a mirror. Mirrors are the perfect lovers, that’s it, carry me up the stairs by the edges, don’t drop me, that would be back luck, throw me on the bed reflecting side up, fall into me, it will be your …
Tag Archives: margaret atwood
Margaret Atwood.”Circe/Mud Poems.” Eating Fire: Selected Poetry 1965-1995. London: Virago (2010) p.167
Screw poetry, it’s you I want, your taste, rain on you, mouth on your skin. Margaret Atwood: Late Night
I have just always been in love with what Margaret Atwood did in The Edible Woman where she switched the tenses of her narrator halfway through to show loss of sanity. I love how she plays with tenses and time structures in all of her writing and I think my main goal was to find …
Over night, whole portions of what had been acknowledged as a reality simply vanished. That’s what happens when there’s a war. Margaret Atwood. The Blind Assassin. New York: Anchor (2001) p. 493
Why bother about the end of the world? It’s the end of the world every day, for someone. Time rises and rises, and when it reaches the level of your eyes you drown. Margaret Atwood. The Blind Assassin. New York: Anchor (2001) p. 493
I must admit it’s a surprise to find myself here, still talking to you. I prefer to think of it as talking, although of course it isn’t: I’m saying nothing, you’re hearing nothing. The only thing between us is this black line: a thread thrown onto the empty page, into the empty air. Margaret Atwood. The …
Because if you don’t, I don’t know what I’ll do. If you got yourself killed or anything I’d go completely to pieces. She thinks: I’m talking like a movie. But how else can I talk? We’ve forgotten how else. Margaret Atwood. The Blind Assassin. New York: Anchor (2001) p. 373
I’m not sad,” I said, and began to cry. Sympathy from strangers can be ruinous. “You should not be sad,” he said, gazing at me with his melancholy, leathery walrus eyes. “It must be the love. But you are young and pretty, you will have time to be sad later.” The French are connoisseurs of …
Thus aerated, I sit at my wooden desk, scratching away with my pen. No, not scratching – pens no longer scratch. The words roll smoothly and soundlessly enough across the page; it’s getting them to flow down the arm, it’s squeezing them out through the fingers, that is so difficult. Margaret Atwood. The Blind Assassin. New York: …
CLARITY AND CHAOS 