Quotes by Margaret Atwood

with shrunken fingerswe ate our oranges and bread,shivering in the parked car;though we know we had neverbeen there before,we knew we had been there before.

Then theres the twoof us. This wordis far too short for us, it has onlyfour letters, too sparseto fill those deep barevacuums between the starsthat press on us with their deafness.Its not love we dont wishto fall into, but that fear.This word is not enough but it willhave to do. Its a singlevowel in this metallicsilence, a mouth that saysO again and again in wonderand pain, a breath, a fingergrip on a cliffside. You canhold on or let go.

SPRING POEMIt is spring, my decision, the earthferments like rising breador refuse, we are burninglast years weeds, the smokeflares from the road, the clumped stalksglow like sluggish phoenixes / it wasntonly my fault / birdsongs burst fromthe feathered pods of their bodies, dandelionswhirl their blades upwards, from beneaththis decaying board a snakesidewinds, chained hidesmelling of reptile sex / the hensroll in the dust, squinting with bliss, frogbodiesbloat like bladders, contract, stringthe pond with living jellyeyes, can I be thisruthless? I plungemy hands and arms into the dirt,swim among stones and cutworms,come up rank as a fox,restless. Nights, while seedlingsdig near my headI dream of reconciliationswith those I have hurtunbearably, we move stilltouching over the greening fields, the futurewounds folded like seedsin our tender fingers, daysI go for vicious walks past the charredroadbed over the bashed stubbleadmiring the view, avoidingthose I have not hurtyet, apocalypse coiled in my tongue,it is spring, I am searchingfor the word:finishedfinishedso I can begin overagain, some yearI will take this word too far.

Fatigue is here, in my body, in my legs and eyes. That is what gets you in the end. Faith is only a word, embroidered.

By telling you anything at all Im at least believing in you, I believe youre there, I believe you into being. Because Im telling you this story I will your existence. I tell, therefore you are.

A word after a word after a word is power.

Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow.

All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel.All of them?Sure, he says. Think about it. Theres escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist.

Its 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.

Publishing a book is like stuffing a note into a bottle and hurling it into the sea. Some bottles drown, some come safe to land, where the notes are read and then possibly cherished, or else misinterpreted, or else understood all too well by those who hate the message. You never know who your readers might be.

Good writing takes place at intersections, at what you might call knots, at places where the society is snarled or knotted up.

Everyone thinks writers must know more about the inside of the human head, but thats wrong. They know less, thats why they write. Trying to find out what everyone else takes for granted.

For me the experience of writing is really an experience of losing control.… I think it’s very much like dreaming or like surfing. You go out there and wait for a wave, and when it comes it takes you somewhere and you don’t know where it’ll go.

I learned about religion the way most children learned about sex, [in the schoolyard]. . . . They terrified me by telling me there was a dead man in the sky watching everything I did and I retaliated by explaining where babies came from. Some of their mothers phoned mine to complain, though I think I was more upset than they were: they didnt believe me but I believed them.

If you knew what was going to happen, if you knew everything that was going to happen next—if you knew in advance the consequences of your own actions—youd be doomed. Youd be ruined as God. Youd be a stone. Youd never eat or drink or laugh or get out of bed in the morning. Youd never love anyone, ever again. Youd never dare to.

Maybe I dont really want to know whats going on. Maybe Id rather not know. Maybe I couldnt bear to know. The Fall was a fall from innocence to knowledge.

Knowing was a temptation. What you dont know wont tempt you.

So we couldnt mingle with them, but we could eavesdrop. We got our knowledge that way--we caught it like germs.

Maybe I don’t really want to know what’s going on. Maybe I’d rather not know. Maybe I couldn’t bear to know.The Fall was a fall from innocence to knowledge.

Ignoring isn’t the same as ignorance, you have to work at it.