Margaret Atwood, fully Margaret Eleanor Atwood

Margaret
Atwood, fully Margaret Eleanor Atwood
1939

Canadian Author, Poet, Critic, Essayist and Environmental Activist

Author Quotes

You can mean more than one. You can mean thousands. I'm not in any immediate danger, I'll say to you. I'll pretend you can hear me. But it's no good, because I know you can't.

You must cultivate poverty of spirit. Blessed are the meek. She didn?t go on to say anything about inheriting the earth.

Whatever is silenced will clamor to be heard, though silently.

When you alter yourself, the alterations become the truth...

While in a vintage restaurant...the past isn't quaint while you're in it. Only at a safe distance, later, when you see it as decor, not as the shape your life's been squeezed into.

Without a word she swivels, as if she?s voice activated, as if she?s on little oiled wheels, as if she?s on top of a music box. I resent this grace of hers. I resent her meek head, bowed as if into a heavy wind. But there is no wind.

You can only be jealous of someone who has something you think you ought to have yourself.

You need a certain amount of nerve to be a writer.

What's dangerous in the hands of the multitudes, he said, with what may or may not have been irony, is safe enough for those whose motives are... Beyond reproach, I said. He nodded gravely. Impossible to tell whether or not he meant it.

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.

Who is to say that prayers have any effect? On the other hand, who is to say they don't? I picture the gods, diddling around on Olympus, wallowing in the nectar and ambrosia and the aroma of burning bones and fat, mischievous as a pack of ten-year-olds with a sick cat to play with and a lot of time on their hands. 'Which prayer shall we answer today?' they ask one another. 'Let's cast the dice! Hope for this one, despair for that one, and while we're at it, let's destroy the life of that woman over there by having sex with her in the form of a crayfish!' I think they pull a lot of their pranks because they're bored.

Without the light, no chance; without the dark, no dance.

You can think clearly only with your clothes on.

You need to give money when someone gives you a knife. So the bad luck won't cut you. I wouldn't like it for you to be cut by the bad luck, Jimmy.

When any civilization is dust and ashes, he said, art is all that's left over. Images, words, music. Imaginative structures. Meaning - human meaning, that is - is defined by them.

When you focus on details like this - close up, really clear, totally useless - you know you're in shock

Why are we designed to see the world as supremely beautiful just as we're about to be snuffed? Do rabbits feel the same as the fox teeth bite down on their necks? Is it mercy?

Without the protection of surliness and levity, all children would be crushed by the past?the past of others, loaded onto their shoulders. Selfishness is their saving grace.

You can wet the rim of a glass and run your finger around the rim and it will make a sound. This is what I feel like: this sound of glass. I feel like the word shatter. I want to be with someone.

When demons are required someone will always be found to supply the part, and whether you step forward or are pushed is all the same in the end.

When you hear me singing you get the rifle down and the flashlight, aiming for my brain, but you always miss and when you set out the poison I piss on it to warn the others.

Why are you so interested in amoebas? Oh, they're immortal, he said, and sort of shapeless and flexible. Being a person is getting too complicated.

Women are hard to keep track of, most of them. They slip into other names, and sink without a trace.

You can wipe your feet on me, twist my motives around all you like, you can dump millstones on my head and drown me in the river, but you can?t get me out of the story. I?m the plot, babe, and don?t ever forget it.

Time is not a line but a dimension, like the dimensions of space. If you can bend space you can bend time also, and if you knew enough and could move faster than light you could travel backward in tie and exist in two places at once.

Author Picture
First Name
Margaret
Last Name
Atwood, fully Margaret Eleanor Atwood
Birth Date
1939
Bio

Canadian Author, Poet, Critic, Essayist and Environmental Activist