She had her reasons. Not that they were the same as anybody else's reasons.
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. They skip town or turn perfidious, or else the drop like flies and then where are you?
A hot wind was blowing around my head, the strands of my hair lifting and swirling in it, like ink spilled in water.
The young habitually mistake lust for love, they're infested with idealism of all kinds.
He throws out radiance, it must be reflected sun. Why isn't everyone staring?
Walking into the crowd was like sinking into a stew - you became an ingredient, you took on a certain flavour.
She who pays the undertaker calls the tune.
You want the truth, of course. You want me to put two and two together. But two and two doesn't necessarily get you the truth. Two and two equals a voice outside the window. Two and two equals the wind. The living bird is not its labeled bones.
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?
There were a lot of gods. Gods always come in handy, they justify almost anything.
I feel despised there, for having so little money; also for once having had so much. I never actually had it, of course. Father had it, and then Richard. But money was imputed to me, the same way crimes are imputed to those who've simply been present at them.
Was that the beginning, that evening? It's hard to know. Beginnings are sudden, but also insidious. They creep up on you sideways, they keep to the shadows, they lurk unrecognized. Then, later, they spring.
Should is a futile word. It's about what didn't happen. It belongs in a parallel universe. It belongs in another dimension of space.
Better not to invent her in her absence. Better to wait until she's actually here. Then he can make her up as she goes along.
There's nothing like a shovel full of dirt to encourage literacy.
I suppose it's everyone's fate to be reduced to quaintness by those younger than themselves.
Was this a betrayal, or was it an act of courage? Perhaps both. Neither one involves forethought: such things take place in an instant, in an eyeblink. This can only be because they have been rehearsed by us already, over and over, in silence and darkness; in such silence, such darkness, that we are ignorant of them ourselves. Blind but sure-footed, we step forward as if into a remembered dance.
So much better to travel than to arrive.
Blondes are like white mice, you only find them in cages. They wouldn't last long in nature. They're too conspicuous.
They were new money, without a doubt: so new it shrieked. Their clothes looked as it they'd covered themselves in glue, then rolled around in hundred-dollar bills.
It wasn't so easy though, ending the war. A war is a huge fire; the ashes from it drift far, and settle slowly.
What fabrications they are, mothers. Scarecrows, wax dolls for us to stick pins into, crude diagrams. We deny them an existence of their own, we make them up to suit ourselves -- our own hungers, our own wishes, our own deficiencies.
Stick a shovel into the ground almost anywhere and some horrible thing or other will come to light. Good for trade, we thrive on bones; without them there'd be no stories.
But in the end, back she comes. There's no use resisting. She goes to him for amnesia, for oblivion. She renders herself up, is blotted out; enters the darkness of her own body, forgets her name. Immolation is what she wants, however briefly. To exist without boundaries.
Things might have been different if she hadn't been able to drift; if she'd had to concentrate on her next meal, instead of dwelling on all the injuries she felt we'd done her. An unearned income encourages self-pity in those already prone to it.
It's Paradise, but we can't get out of it. And anything you can't get out of is Hell.
What is the real breath of a man - the breathing out or the breathing in?
Ten days after the war ended, my sister Laura drove a car off a bridge.
But thoughtless ingratitude is the armour of the young; without it, how would they ever get through life? The old wish the young well, but they wish them ill also: they would like to eat them up, and absorb their vitality, and remain immortal themselves. Without the protection of surliness and levity, all children would be crushed by the past - the past of others, loaded on their shoulders. Selfishness is their saving grace.
Things written down can cause a great deal of harm. All too often, people don't consider that.
More Margaret Atwood Quotations (Based on Topics)
Love - Man - Time - Woman - Mind - Power - God - Nature - Body - Education - Life - Water - Future - Money & Wealth - Sex - World - Past - War & Peace - Death & Dying - View All Margaret Atwood Quotations
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