By Margaret Atwood
Via turns funny and hot, stark and scary, Bluebeard'S Egg glows with early life stories, the truth of oldsters getting older, and the informal cruelty women and men inflict on one another. this is the ordinary outer international of relations summers at distant lakes, winters of political activism, and seasons of unique associates, mundane lives, and unforeseen loves. yet the following too is the interior global of hidden locations and all that emerges from them-the in detail own, the glorious, the shockingly real...whether it truly is what lives in a mysterious locked room or the key emotions all of us disguise. during this dramatic and far-ranging assortment, Margaret Atwood proves why she is a real grasp of the style.
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Extra info for Bluebeard's Egg: Stories
The poets are in the kitchen, sitting around the table, which is littered with papers and coffee cups and plates with crumbs and smears of butter on them. Loulou looks from one poet to another as if they are figures in a painting, as if she's never seen them before. She could walk out of this room, right this minute, and never come back, and fifty years later they would all still be in there, with the same plates, the same cups, the same crumby butter. Only she doesn't know where she would go. "We're out of muffins," says Bob.
In a group they can laugh, but it's only Loulou who has seen them one at a time, sitting in chairs for hours on end with their heads down on their arms, almost unable to move. It's Loulou who's held their hands when they couldn't make it in bed and told them that other things are just as important, though she's never been able to specify what. It's Loulou who has gone out and got drunk with them and listened to them talking about the void and about the terrifying blankness of the page and about how any art form is just a way of evading suicide.
She could never stand any of his furniture, especially the Ping-Pong table; she was always lobbying for a real dining-room table, though, as Joel would point out with great reasonableness, it wouldn't have a double function. "You're always talking about bourgeoise," she'd say, which wasn't true. "But that chair is the essence. " She pronounced it in three syllables: booi-joo-ice. " Could he help it if he'd spent a year in Montreal? And she hadn't. He couldn't help any of the things that he had and she hadn't.
Bluebeard's Egg: Stories by Margaret Atwood