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The Tent

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Overview

Margaret Atwood is one of the world's most esteemed authors, a writer of wide range--novels, stories, essays, criticism. She now brings readers a collection of smart and entertaining fictional essays punctuated with her own wonderful illustrations. Chilling and witty, these highly imaginative, Atwoodian pieces speak on a broad range of subjects, reflecting the times we live in with deadly accuracy and knife-edge precision.

Herein Atwood gives a sly pep talk to the ambitious young; writes about the disconcerting experience of looking at old photos of ourselves; gives us Horatio's real views on Hamlet; and examines the boons and banes of orphanhood. "Bring Back Mom: An Invocation" explores what life was really like for the "perfect" homemakers of days gone by, and in "The Animals Reject Their Names," she runs history backward, with surprising results.

Prescient and personal, delectable and tart, The Tent is vintage Atwood.

Editorial Reviews

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. (Jan. 10) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information. -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.

Author Information

Bio of Margaret Atwood

Born November 18, 1939, in Ottawa, Canada, Margaret Atwood spent her early years in the northern Quebec wilderness. Settling in Toronto in 1946, she continued to spend summers in the northern woods. This experience provided much of the thematic material for her verse. Atwood began her writing career as a poet, short story writer, cartoonist, and reviewer for her high school paper. She attended Victoria College, University of Toronto, from 1957-1961. She received her A. M. at Radcliff College of Harvard University in 1962. Atwood's first book of verse, Double Persephone, was published in 1961 and was awarded the E. J. Pratt Medal. She has published numerous books of poetry, novels, story collections, critical work, juvenile work, and radio and teleplays. Many of her novels focus on women's issues. Atwood lectured in English Literature at University of British Columbia, Vancouver; Sir George Williams University, Montreal; and York University, Toronto. She served as writer in residence at University of Toronto; University of Alabama; New York University; and Macquarie University, North Rye, Australia. Awards for her poetry and fiction include the Governor General's Award in 1966 for The Circle Game and in 1986 for The Handmaid's Tale. The Handmaid's Tale was also filmed in 1990 and short-listed for the Booker Prize, as was Cat's Eye in 1989.

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Additional Info

Imprint

Nan A. Talese

Filesize

977.13 KB

Number of Pages

176

eBook ISBN

9780307386946

Excerpt from: The Tent by Margaret Atwood

Life Stories

Why the hunger for these? If it is a hunger. Maybe it's 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 ýshouldn't have chewed with their mouths open, they ýshouldn't have worn the strapless top, they ýshouldn't have yawned, they ýshouldn't have laughed: so unattractive, the candid denture. So that's what she looked like, we say, connecting the snapshot to the year of the torrid affair. Face like a half-ýeaten 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?

I'm working on my own life story. I ýdon't mean I'm putting it together; no, I'm taking it apart. It's mostly a question of editing. If you'd 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-ýthumbed 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 ýcan't remember.

Once you get started it's 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, you've slipped from view, erased, defaced: I know you once had hairdos and told jokes, but I ýcan't recall them. Into the ground with you, my tender fur-ýbrained cats and dogs, and horses and mice as well: I adored you, dozens of you, but what were your names?

I'm getting somewhere now, I'm feeling lighter. I'm 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.