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The Tent

The Tent Cover

 

 

Excerpt

Life Stories

Why the hunger for these? If it is a hunger. Maybe its more like bossiness. Maybe we just want to be in charge, of the life, no matter who lived it.

It helps if there are photos. No more choices for the people in them — pick this one, dump that one. The livers of the lives in question had their chances, most of which they blew. They should have spotted the photographer in the bushes, they ­shouldnt have chewed with their mouths open, they ­shouldnt have worn the strapless top, they ­shouldnt have yawned, they ­shouldnt have laughed: so unattractive, the candid denture. So thats what she looked like, we say, connecting the snapshot to the year of the torrid affair. Face like a half-­eaten pizza, and is that him, gaping down her front? What did he see in her, besides cheap lunch? He was already going bald. What was all the fuss about?

Im working on my own life story. I ­dont mean Im putting it together; no, Im taking it apart. Its mostly a question of editing. If youd wanted the narrative line you should have asked earlier, when I still knew everything and was more than willing to tell. That was before I discovered the virtues of scissors, the virtues of matches.

I was born, I would have begun, once. But snip, snip, away go mother and father, white ribbons of paper blown by the wind, with grandparents tossed out for good measure. I spent my childhood. Enough of that as well. Goodbye dirty little dresses, goodbye scuffed shoes that caused me such anguish, goodbye well-­thumbed tears and scabby knees, and sadness worn at the edges.

Adolescence can be discarded too, with its salty tanned skin, its fecklessness and bad romance and leakages of seasonal blood. What was it like to breathe so heavily, as if drugged, while rubbing up against strange leather coats in alleyways? I ­cant remember.

Once you get started its fun. So much free space opens up. Rip, crumple, up in flames, out the window. I was born, I grew up, I studied, I loved, I married, I procreated, I said, I wrote, all gone now. I went, I saw, I did. Farewell crumbling turrets of historic interest, farewell icebergs and war monuments, all those young stone men with eyes upturned, and risky voyages teeming with germs, and dubious hotels, and doorways opening both in and out. Farewell friends and lovers, youve slipped from view, erased, defaced: I know you once had hairdos and told jokes, but I ­cant recall them. Into the ground with you, my tender fur-­brained cats and dogs, and horses and mice as well: I adored you, dozens of you, but what were your names?

Im getting somewhere now, Im feeling lighter. Im coming unstuck from scrapbooks, from albums, from diaries and journals, from space, from time. Only a paragraph left, only a sentence or two, only a whisper.

I was born.

I was.

I.

Product Details

ISBN:
9780385516686
Publisher:
Nan A. Talese
Subject:
Short Stories (single author)
Author:
Atwood, Margaret
Subject:
Essays
Publication Date:
20060110
Binding:
Hardback
Grade Level:
General/trade
Language:
English
Illustrations:
7 B/W ILLUSTRATIONS THROUGHOUT
Pages:
176
Dimensions:
7.56x5.22x.79 in. .53 lbs.

Related Subjects

Fiction and Poetry » Literature » A to Z

The Tent
0 stars - 0 reviews
$ In Stock
Product details 176 pages Nan A. Talese - English 9780385516686 Reviews:
"Publishers Weekly Review" by , "Biting anger, humor and interest in the fantastic have marked inimitable Atwood works like The Handmaid's Tale, The Blind Assassin and Oryx and Crake. In this odd set of terse, mostly prose ripostes, Atwood takes stock of life and career — 'this graphomania in a flimsy cave' — and finds both come up short. Staged from behind screens of updated fables and myths ('Salome Was a Dancer' begins 'Salome went after the Religious Studies teacher'), the pieces rage icily against the constraints of gender, age (witheringly: 'I have decided to encourage the young'), fame and even 'Voice': 'What people saw was me. What I saw was my voice, ballooning out in front of me like the translucent green membrane of a frog in full trill.' Along with a few poems and childlike line drawings, what keeps this collection of 30-odd fictions from being a set of rants is the offhanded intimacy and acerbic self-knowledge with which Atwood delivers them: 'The person you have in mind is lost. That's the picture I'm getting.' Threaded throughout are dead-on asides on the tyrannies of time and the limits of truth telling in society, so that when Hoggy Groggy hires Foxy Loxy to silence Chicken Little forever, there is no doubt with whom the author's sympathies lie." Publishers Weekly (Copyright Reed Business Information, Inc.)
"Review" by , "To dip into its pages is like dipping into a box of assorted candies....More often, they're tart, pungent, spicy, occasionally bittersweet, tasting of strong herbs or laced with spirits that deliver a heady punch."
"Review" by , "This slender yet engaging collection....Much of the territory covered here is vintage Atwood, but there are enough twists and fresh takes in these acerbic musings to keep longtime readers interested and, perhaps, to hook those for whom Atwood is unfamiliar."
"Review" by , "The book includes jabs at popular concepts of God, leadership, the good old days....But most of these pieces are intensely personal, with the author examining her own motives and operations."
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