In a way, I found this book right on time. Atwood’s writing is haunting, beautiful. The words themselves are terrifying and uncomfortably familiar.
There were places you didn’t want to walk, precautions you took that had to do with locks on windows and doors, drawing the curtains, leaving on lights. These things you did were like prayers; you did them and you hoped they would save you. And for the most part they did. Or something did; you could tell by the fact that you were still alive.
My favorite part about this novel was a dearth of quoting: nothing is put on record in this haunting book of feelings.
You can wet the rim of a glass and run your finger around the rim and it will make a sound. This is what I feel like: this sound of glass. I feel like the word shatter.
How to describe the moment you finish a dystopian novel and feeling grateful to escape back into a saner time? Ah yes: wishful thinking.
Ignoring isn’t the same as ignorance, you have to work at it.