If he wants to be an asshole, it's a free country. Millions before him have made the same life choice.

Margaret Atwood

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It's impossible to say a thing exactly the way it was, because of what you say can never be exact, you always have to leave something out, there are too many parts, sides, crosscurrents, nuances; too many gestures, which could mean this or that, too many shapes which can never be fully described, too many flavors, in the air or on the tongue, half-colors, too many.

Margaret Atwood

Mots clés writing stories

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If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.

Margaret Atwood

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We love each other, that’s true whatever it means, but we aren’t good at it; for some it’s a talent, for others only an addiction.

Margaret Atwood

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But remember that forgiveness too is a power. To beg for it is a power, and to withhold or bestow it is a power, perhaps the greatest.
Maybe none of this is about control. Maybe it isn't really about who can own whom, who can do what to whom and get away with it, even as far as death. Maybe it isn't about who can sit and who has to kneel or stand or lie down, legs spread open. Maybe it's about who can do what to whom and be forgiven for it. Never tell me it amounts to the same thing.

Margaret Atwood

Mots clés power forgiveness own control kneel

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We all know that a book is not really a person. It isn’t a human being. But if you are a lover of books as books – as objects, that is – and ignore the human element in them – that is, their voices – you will be committing an error of the soul, because you will be an idolator, or else a fetishist.

Margaret Atwood

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For every year of peace there have been four hundred years of war.

Margaret Atwood

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You're dead, Cordelia.'
No I'm not.
'Yes you are. You're dead.
Lie down.

Margaret Atwood

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Where do the words go
when we have said them?

Margaret Atwood

Mots clés words poetry

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with shrunken fingers
we ate our oranges and bread,
shivering in the parked car;

though we know we had never
been there before,
we knew we had been there before.

Margaret Atwood

Mots clés poetry deja-vu

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