Margaret Atwood

"Today on the way home, it snows. Big, soft caressing flakes fall onto our skin like cold moths; the air fills with feathers."
"If you knew what was going to happen, if you knew everything that was going to happen next—if you knew in advance the consequences of your own actions—you'd be doomed. You'd be ruined as God. You'd be a stone. You'd never eat or drink or laugh or get out of bed in the morning. You'd never love anyone, ever again. You'd never dare to."
"It's evening, one of those gray water-color washes, like liquid dust."
"Old lovers go the way of old photographs, bleaching out gradually as in a slow bath of acid- first the moles and pimples, then the shadings. Then the faces themselves, until nothing remains but the general outlines."
"But I began then to think of time as having a shape, something you could see, like a series of liquid transparencies, one laid on top of another."
"He considers me also a little fragile because artistic. I need to be cared for, like a potted plant."
"The alcohol smell is on my fingers, cold and remote, piercing like a steel pin going in. It smells like white enamel basins. When I look up at the stars in the nighttime, cold and white and sharp, I think they must smell like that."
"Vanity is becoming a nuisance, I can see why women give it up, eventually. But I'm not ready for that yet."
"Karen wasn't hard, she was soft, too soft. A soft touch. Her hair was soft, her smile was soft, her voice was soft. She was so soft there was no resistance. Hard things sank into her, they went right through her, and if she made a real effort, out the other side. Then she didn't have to see them or hear them, or even touch them."
"Cleverness is a quality a man likes to have in his wife as long as she is some distance away from him. Up close, he'll take kindness any day of the week, if there's nothing more alluring to be had."
"Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow."
"It wasn't so easy though, ending the war. A war is a huge fire; the ashes from it drift far, and settle slowly."