By Margaret Atwood
By way of turns funny and hot, stark and scary, Bluebeard'S Egg glows with formative years thoughts, the truth of oldsters getting older, and the informal cruelty women and men inflict on one another. this is the favourite outer global of kinfolk summers at distant lakes, winters of political activism, and seasons of unique neighbors, mundane lives, and unforeseen loves. yet right here too is the internal international of hidden locations and all that emerges from them-the in detail own, the wonderful, the shockingly real...whether it is what lives in a mysterious locked room or the key emotions all of us hide. 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
God, hell," says Phil. "We would. " This is going too far for Loulou. Nobody invented her, thank you very much. They make things up about her, but that's a whole other story. "Up your nose," says Loulou. " Loulou looks around the room. They are all in place, they're all watching her, to see what she will say next. She sticks out her chin at them. " she says. " and they relax, they laugh, they give each other little punches on the shoulder as if they're part of a team and they've just scored a point.
When she has dried her hands, Loulou takes off her smock. Underneath it she's wearing a mauve sweatshirt with RAVING OPTIMIST stencilled across the front. " This was true, though they made fun of her for it. 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.
By putting one foot in front of the other and never taking her eyes off her feet. You could end up anywhere that way. It isn't that the accountant is normal, any more than the poets are; nor is he a possible alternative. She won't even sleep with him again, not on purpose anyway. But he is other, he is another. She too could be other. But which other? What, underneath it all, is Loulou really like? How can she tell? Maybe she is what the poets say she is, after all; maybe she has only their word, their words, for herself.
Bluebeard's Egg: Stories by Margaret Atwood