Perhaps its not the world that is soundless but we who are deaf.

Margaret Atwood

Tag: world people



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Time folds you in its arms and gives you one last kiss, and then it flattens you out and folds you up and tucks you away until it's time for you to become someone else's past time, and then time folds again.

Margaret Atwood

Tag: life time



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We thought we were running away from the grownups, and now we are the grownups.

Margaret Atwood


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Women have curious ways of hurting someone else. They hurt themselves instead; or else they do it so the guy doesn't even know he's been hurt until much later. Then he finds out. Then his dick falls off.

Margaret Atwood


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We're all watching him. It's the one thing we can really do, and it is not for nothing: if he were to falter, fail, or die, what would become of us? No wonder he's like a boot, hard on the outside, giving shape to a pulp of tenderfoot. That's just a wish. I've been watching him for some time and he's given no evidence, of softness.

But watch out, Commander, I tell him in my head. I've got my eye on you. One false move and I'm dead.

Still, it must be hell, to be a man, like that.

It must be just fine.

It must be hell.

It must be very silent.

Margaret Atwood


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A Paradox, the doughnut hole. Empty space, once, but now they've learned to market even that. A minus quantity; nothing, rendered edible. I wondered if they might be used-metaphorically, of course-to demonstrate the existence of God. Does naming a sphere of nothingness transmute it into being?

Margaret Atwood

Tag: food philosophy religion marketing



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Forgiving men is so much easier than forgiving women.

Margaret Atwood

Tag: men women forgiveness



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Despite their cool poses they wear their cravings on the outside, like the suckers on a squid. They want it all.

Margaret Atwood


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I did not know how to paint or even what to paint, but I knew I had to begin.

Margaret Atwood

Tag: paint



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My hands are out of practice, my eyes disused. Most of what I do is drawing, because the preparation of the surface, the laborious underpainting and detailed concentration... are too much for me. I have lost confidence: perhaps all I will ever be is what I am now.

Margaret Atwood


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