When you are in the middle of a story it isn't a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else.
Margaret AtwoodBut who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.
Margaret AtwoodNight falls. Or has fallen. Why is it that night falls, instead of rising, like the dawn? Yet if you look east, at sunset, you can see night rising, not falling; darkness lifting into the sky, up from the horizon, like a black sun behind cloud cover. Like smoke from an unseen fire, a line of fire just below the horizon, brushfire or a burning city. Maybe night falls because it’s heavy, a thick curtain pulled up over the eyes. Wool blanket.
Margaret AtwoodTag: night
We yearned for the future. How did we learn it, that talent for insatiability?
Margaret AtwoodTag: future hope insatiability
The animals have no need for speech, why talk when you are a word.
Margaret AtwoodThe answers you get from literature depend on the questions you pose.
Margaret AtwoodTag: reading literature
His father was self-made, but his mother was constructed by others, and such edifices are notoriously fragile.
Margaret AtwoodTag: parents self-made alias-grace
her face might be kindly if she would smile
Margaret AtwoodA Sister, dipped in blood
Margaret AtwoodThe bell that measures time is ringing
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