When J was very small and we all still lived in the same city, we met one night at my parents' house for dinner, after which J decided she needed a candy. My mum took her to their pantry where the candies were kept. Their voices floated back toward us. Mum said, Here let me help you with that so you don't take too much. And J's voice came back, No, it's okay, I want too much.
I liked the way she said that, I want too much. I always want too much. It reminds me of Dad pouring my apple juice when I was the same age as J wanting too much candy.
He says, Do you want tall juice or short juice? This means should he pour the juice from a normal sane height, or should he hold the juice carton way up high so it splashes juice not only in the glass but also, hopefully, a bit on the table? Of course I always want a tall juice. I am built to spill from the moment I can talk.
He says, Say when, and I think he must know by now that I am not going to say when because I want to see what will happen if I don't. I am silently daring him to keep pouring and pouring and pouring the juice until the glass overflows and pours over the top of the table so it cascades onto the floor. I want this to happen so much it hurts me when he stops pouring without my cue to stop. It makes me desperately sad that when happens whether or not I say so; it still does. And I have never liked apple juice enough to drink a full glass of it.
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I am reading The Year of the Flood mostly because Atwood is Canadian, not mostly because I love her books. Though I loved The Edible Woman, overall I have admired Atwood's poetry more than her fiction. After I read her words,
You fit into me
like a hook into an eye
A fish hook
An open eye
I decided to read all her other words for the rest of her life, or mine. Sometimes that has been a bit tedious, but mostly I like knowing what those literary types think is important. I am not convinced The Year of the Flood is a good book but I like it well enough to finish it, all of it, unlike the apple juice.
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6 comments:
I, too, have The Year of the Flood mostly out of duty, perhaps misplaced since I am not Canadian, but have yet to read it. The Handmaid's Tale fascinated and terrified me, still does although I haven't read it in years. The poem you quote is amazing - one could even say, eye opening.
I found The Handmaid's Tale fascinating and horrifying too, but for some reason at the same time I found the writing style dry. I find Margaret Atwood a (intentionally) dry most of the time, but somehow in poetry this is delightful while in books it is a bit tiring. There is a character in The Year of the Flood that she calls "The Dry Witch", which is exactly, I think, how Atwood sees herself. I have heard her read, and she reads her own writing in a very expressionless (dry) way. She is a very odd woman.
And yet, I saw her on television once being interviewed by George Strombolopolous, and during that interview she was flirtatous and downright silly. So maybe it depends who she's talking with.
Anyway, The Year of the Flood is getting better as I read on.
I used to read books because I felt I should or because it had been recommended or because I'd started it and hated to quit. Now, I am more inclined to quit if it doesn't grab emme early on. I guess because the time behind me is getting longer than the time ahead of me.
I give up sometimes too. I gave up on One Hundred Years of Solitude, and it still kind of bothers me because so many people raved about how wonderful it was. It bothered me that I couldn't read it. I'll probably try again at some point, but maybe it would be healthier to just let myself let it go.
You've reminded me of what I read last night. I normally have two books on the go at once as I have to be in the right mood to read, so I have Owen Meany and Widow for a Year on the bedside table. Only started the second yesterday, but I was taken with the tale of Ruth as a child walking into her dad in the night saying that she had heard a sound which sounded like something trying not to make a sound. What I have only just realised, having googled to make sure I got it right, is that Irving actually wrote that book in the end. How lovely.
I laid in bed thinking of things the children had said to me. Especially the little ones; things I now wish I had written down because they were magic. I think I told you about B who had autism and thought that the planes in the sky were smaller versions of the planes on the ground. If I was teaching still, I would be writing books by now.
True, children do sometimes say fascinating things, especially the autistic ones. I like the altered perspective. Once, when I was working in a daycare when I was about nineteen, I was holding a little two year old boy in my arms so he could look out the window at the clouds, and he leaned into me all snuggly and said, "When I'm big I'll be free." I was delighted with that pronouncement even more when I realised he meant he was going to be big when he was three.
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