I grew up with the biologists. I know how they think. Margaret Atwood More Quotes by Margaret Atwood More Quotes From Margaret Atwood The true story is vicious and multiple and untrue after all. Why do you need it? Don’t ever ask for the true story. Margaret Atwood viciousstoriesneeds Canada was built on dead beavers. Margaret Atwood beaversbuiltcanada I did not know how to paint or even what to paint, but I knew I had to begin. Margaret Atwood know-howpaintknows Romance takes place in the middle distance. Romance is looking in at yourself through a window clouded with dew. Romance means leaving things out: where life grunts and shuffles, romance only sighs. Margaret Atwood distancelovemean While he writes, I feel as if he is drawing me; or not drawing me, drawing on me - drawing on my skin - not with the pencil he is using, but with an old-fashioned goose pen, and not with the quill end but with the feather end. As if hundreds of butterflies have settled all over my face, and are softly opening and closing their wings. Margaret Atwood butterflywritingwings I would not change [my past work] anymore than I would airbrush a photo of myself. Margaret Atwood my-pastpast As an artist your first loyalty is to your art. Unless this is the case, you're going to be a second-rate artist. Margaret Atwood loyaltyartfirsts Support your libraries... or else! Margaret Atwood librarysupport I see that there will be no end to imperfection, or to doing things the wrong way. Even if you grow up, no matter how hard you scrub, whatever you do, there will always be some other stain or spot on your face or stupid act, somebody frowning. Margaret Atwood imperfectiongrowing-upstupid I was sand, I was snow—written on, rewritten, smoothed over. Margaret Atwood sandwrittensnow Vanity is becoming a nuisance, I can see why women give it up, eventually. But I'm not ready for that yet. Margaret Atwood vanitywomengiving 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 Atwood glassesconfusiondark This is the solstice, the still point of the sun, its cusp and midnight, the year's threshold and unlocking, where the past lets go of and becomes the future; the place of caught breath. Margaret Atwood letting-gopastyears The truly fearless think of themselves as normal. Margaret Atwood braverycouragethinking There are some virtues to not saying what you think all the time. Margaret Atwood virtuesilencethinking ... all this talking, this rather liquid confessing, was something I didn't think I could ever bring myself to do. It seemed foolhardy to me, like an uncooked egg deciding to to come out of its shell: there would be a risk of spreading out too far, turning into a formless puddle. Margaret Atwood eggstalkingthinking Sons branch out, but one woman leads to another. Margaret Atwood brancheswittyson he might die for her, but living for her would be quite different. Margaret Atwood differentwould-bemight Today on the way home, it snows. Big, soft caressing flakes fall onto our skin like cold moths; the air fills with feathers. Margaret Atwood airhomefall 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—you'd be doomed. You'd be ruined as God. You'd be a stone. You'd never eat or drink or laugh or get out of bed in the morning. You'd never love anyone, ever again. You'd never dare to. Margaret Atwood womenmorningknowledge
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