(b. 1939– )
Canadian poet, novelist, literary critic, essayist, and environmental activist
Margaret Atwood
It’s the first week of October. Season of woolen garments taken out of mothballs; of nocturnal mists and dew and slippery front steps, and late-blooming slugs; of snapdragons having one last fling; of those frilly ornamental pink-and-purple cabbages that never used to exist, but are all over everywhere now.
The Blind Assassin (New York: Anchor, 2001), paperback ed., 191.
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 come out of its shell: there would be a risk of spreading out too far, turning into a formless puddle.
The Edible Woman (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1999), 112.