Once a month I wake in the night, slippery with terror. I'm afraid, not because there's someone in the room, in the dark, in the bed, but because there isn't. I'm afraid of the emptiness, which lies beside me like a corpse.
Margaret AtwoodWe all know that a book is not really a person. It isnโt a human being. But if you are a lover of books as books โ as objects, that is โ and ignore the human element in them โ that is, their voices โ you will be committing an error of the soul, because you will be an idolator, or else a fetishist.
Margaret AtwoodJimmy found himself wishing to make a dent in Crake, get a reaction; it was one of his weaknesses, to care what other people thought of him.
Margaret AtwoodWe have begun to slam doors, and to throw things. I throw my purse, an ashtray, a package of chocolate chips, which breaks on impact. We are picking up chocolate chips for days. Jon throws a glass of milk, the milk, not the glass: he knows his own strength, as I do not. He throws a box of Cheerios, unopened. The things I throw miss, although they are worse things. The things he throws hit, but are harmless. I begin to see how the line is crossed, between histrionics and murder.
Margaret Atwood