Margaret Atwood

“You could tell a lot about a person from their fridge magnets, not that he'd thought much about them at the time.”

“The memos that came from above telling him he'd done a good job meant nothing to him because they'd been dictated by semi-literates; all they proved was that no one at AnooYou was capable of appreciating how clever he had been. He came to understand why serial killers sent helpful clues to the police.”

“But reality has too much darkness in it. Too many crows”

“There is no fool like an educated fool...”

“I'm bad at picking heroes.”

“There's more than one way to skin a cat, my father used to say; it bothered me, I didn't see why they would want to skin a cat even one way.”

“You couldn’t leave words lying around where our enemies might find them.”

“Their youngness is terrifying. How could I have put myself into the hands of such inexperience?”

“The stains on the mattress. Like dried flower petals. Not recent. Old love; there's no other kind of love in this room now.”

“The difference between lie and lay. Lay is always passive. Even men used to say, I'd like to get laid. Though sometimes they said, I'd like to lay her. All this is pure speculation. I don't really know what men used to say. I had only their words for it.”

“Though at that time men and women tried each other on, casually, like suits, rejecting whatever did not fit.”

“All I can hope for is a reconstruction: the way love feels is always only approximate.”

“I want to see what can be seen, of him, take him in, memorize him, save him up so I can live on the image, later: the lines of his body, the texture of his flesh, the glisten of sweat on his pelt, his long sardonic unrevealing face. I ought to have done that with Luke, paid more attention, to the details, the moles and scares, the singular creases; I didn't and he's fading. Day by day, night by night he recedes, and I become more faithless.”

“Humanity is so adaptable [...] Truly amazing, what people can get used to, as long as there are a few compensations.”

“Was every Heathcliff a Linton in disguise?”

“Besides, who would think of marrying a mothball? A question my mother put to me often, later, in other forms.”

“It's kind of shocking to hear Toby called a babe; sort of like calling God a studmuffin.”

“Writing poetry is a state of free float”

“Don’t interfere with false gods, you’ll get the gold paint all over your hands.”

“That’s what you get for being food.”

“We're ankle deep in blood, and all because we ate the birds, we ate them a long time ago, when we still had the power to say no.”

“Why are you so interested in amoebas?""Oh, they're immortal," he said, "and sort of shapeless and flexible. Being aperson is getting too complicated.”

“This goes along with another belief of mine: that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.”

“Después de tanto tiempo juntos, ambos tenemos la cabeza atiborrada de esas advertencias menores, esas pistas útiles sobre la otra persona: lo que le gusta y lo que le disgusta, sus preferencias y sus tabúes. No te pongas detrás de mí cuando estoy leyendo. No uses mis cuchillos de cocina. No desordenes. Cada cual cree que el otro debería respetar esa serie frecuentemente repetida de instrucciones de uso, pero el caso es que se anulan las unas a las otras: si Tig debe respetar mi necesidad de remolonear sin pensar en nada, libre de malas noticias, antes de la primera taza de café ¿no debería yo respetar su necesidad de escupir catástrofes para librarse cuanto antes de ellas?-Oh, lo siento- dice, y me dirige una mirada de reproche.¿Por qué tengo que decepcionarlo de ese modo? ¿No sé acaso que si no puede contarme las malas noticias de inmediato, alguna glándula biliar o alguna úlcera de las malas noticias estallará en su interior y le producirá una peritonitis del alma? Entonces quien lo sentirá seré yo.Tiene razón, debería sentirlo. No me queda nadie más cuyo pensamiento pueda leer.”

“Per il Paradiso abbiamo bisogno di Te. L'Inferno ce lo possiamo fare da soli.”

“In queste occasioni leggo velocemente, con voracità, saltando qualche parola e cercando di riempirmi la testa il più possibile prima di un nuovo, lungo periodo di astinenza. Se fossero un genere commestibile queste letture smorzerebbero l'ingordigia dell'affamato, se fossero sesso equivarrebbero a un veloce amplesso furtivo, in qualche vicolo.”

“Sono una nube congelata attorno a un oggetto centrale, in forma di pera, duro e reale più di me stessa e che riluce di rosso entro il suo diafano involucro. Dentro c'è uno spazio, vasto quanto il cielo di notte e altrettanto buio e ricurvo, sebbene rosso-nero più che nero. Puntini di luce si espandono, scintillano, scoppiano e avvizziscono all'interno, innumeri come stelle. Ogni mese c'è una luna gigantesca, rotonda, pesante, un presagio. Transita, sosta, prosegue, scompare alla vista, e vedo lo scoramento di venirmi incontro come una carestia. Sentirsi così vuota, daccapo, daccapo. Ascolto il mio cuore, onda su onda, onde salate e rosse, che segnano il tempo.”

“Noi eravamo la gente di cui non si parlava nei giornali. Vivevamo nei vuoti spazi bianchi ai margini dei fogli e questo ci dava più libertà.Vivevamo tra gli interstizi di storie altrui.”

“Non temono che ce ne andiamo di nascosto. Non arriveremmo lontano. Temono altre fughe, quelle che puoi aprirti dentro, se hai un oggetto con un bordo tagliente.”

“Writing is work. It’s also gambling. You don’t get a pension plan. Other people can help you a bit, but ­essentially you’re on your own. ­Nobody is making you do this: you chose it, so don’t whine.”

“The genres, it is thought, have other designs on us. They want to entertain, as opposed to rubbing our noses in the daily grit produced by the daily grind. Unhappily for realistic novelists, the larger reading public likes being entertained.”

“Anything that doesn't fit this mode has been shoved into an area of lesser solemnity called 'genre fiction,' and it is here that the spy thriller and the crime story and the adventure story and the supernatural tale and the science fiction, however excellently written, must reside, sent to their rooms, as it were, for the misdemeanor of being enjoyable in what is considered a meretricious way. They invent, and we all know they invent, at least up to a point, and they are, therefore, not about 'real life,' which ought to lack coincidences and weirdness and action-adventure, unless the adventure story is about war, of course, where anything goes, and they are, therefore, not solid.”

“This above all, to refuse to be a victim. Unless I can do that I can do nothing.”

“So Crake never remembered his dreams. It's Snowman that remembers them instead. Worse than remembers: he's immersed in them, he'd wading through them, he's stuck in them. Every moment he's lived in the past few months was dreamed first by Crake. No wonder Crake screamed so much.”

“I learned about religion the way most children learned about sex, [in the schoolyard]. . . . They terrified me by telling me there was a dead man in the sky watching everything I did and I retaliated by explaining where babies came from. Some of their mothers phoned mine to complain, though I think I was more upset than they were: they didn't believe me but I believed them.”

“... Remember that forgiveness too is a power. To beg for it is a power, and to withold or bestow it is a power, perhaps the greatest.”

“Maybe sadness was a kind of hunger, she thought. Maybe the two went together.”

“She said love was useless, because it led you into dumb exchanges in which you gave too much away, and then you got bitter and mean.”

“She'd stepped out of sex as if out of a loose dress. Now she was brisk, decisive, no nonsense.”

“And still, what a risk he'd taken. The woman was like an amateur car bomb: you never knew when she would explode or who she would take down with her when she did.”

“It isn't the sort of thing you ask questions about, because the answers are not usually answers you want to know.”

“Toast is me.I am toast.”

“Also, if a man takes pride in his disguise skills, it would be a foolish wife who would claim to recognise him: it's always an imprudence to step between a man and the reflection of his own cleverness.”

“How shrunk, how dwindled, in our timesCreation's mighty seed -For Man has broke the FellowshipWith murder, lust, and greed.”

“There were a few other moves of his father's he could do without as well - the sucker punches, the ruffling of the hair, the way of pronouncing the word son, in a slightly deeper voice. This hearty way of talking was getting worse, as if his father were auditioning for the role of Dad, but without much hope.”

“All those years I'd kept an outline of my father in my head, like a chalk line enclosing a father-shaped space. When I was little, I'd coloured it in often enough. But those colours had been too bright and the outline had been too large...”

“As Saint Paul says, marry or burn.”

“How much misery…how much needless despair has been caused by a series of biological mismatches, a misalignment of the hormones and pheromones? Resulting in the fact that the one you love so passionately won’t or can’t love you. As a species we’re pathetic in that way: imperfectly monogamous. If only we could pair-bond for life, like gibbons, or else opt for total-guilt free promiscuity, there’d be no more sexual torment. You’d never want someone you couldn’t have’ ‘…But think what we’d be giving up…we’d be human robots…there’d be no free choice.’‘…we’re human robots anyway, only we’re faulty ones.”

“…Homo sapiens doesn’t seem able to cut himself off at the supply end. He’s one of the few species that doesn’t limit reproduction in the face of dwindling resources. In other words - and up to a point, of course - the less we eat, the more we fuck.’‘How do you account for that?’ said Jimmy.‘Imagination,’ said Crake, ‘Men can imagine their own deaths, they can see them coming, and the mere thought of impending death acts like an aphrodisiac. A dog or a rabbit doesn’t behave like that. Take birds - in a lean season they cut down on the eggs, or they don’t mate at all. They put their energy into staying alive themselves until times get better. But human beings hope they can stick their souls into someone else, some new version of themselves, and live on forever.’‘As a species we’re doomed by hope then?’ ‘You could call it hope. That, or desperation.’ ‘But we’re doomed without hope, as well,’ said Jimmy.‘Only as individuals,’ said Crake cheerfully.‘Well, it sucks.’‘Jimmy, grow up.’Crake wasn’t the first person who ever said that to Jimmy.”

“It was the thumbprints of human imperfection that used to move him, the flaws in the design: the lopsided smile, the wart next to the navel, the mole, the bruise. Was it consolation he’d had in mind, kissing the wound to make it better?”