i realise that if i hope to any extent to get the real hungarian experience while im living here i should read hungarian literature. (un)fortunately its not commonly translated into english, or at least not that ive found and the british council library seems to have a good stack of atwood books. so i continue on reading atwood's books that i never made time to read before.
cat's eye //
potential has a shelf life
he considers me also a little fragile because artistic. i need to be cared for, like a potted plant
there were no men in this painting, but it was about men, the kind who caused women to fall. i did not ascribe any intentions to these men. they were like the weather, they didn't have a mind. they merely drenched you or struck you like lightening and moved in, mindless as blizzards. or they were like rocks, a line of sharp slippery rocks with jagged edges. you could walk with care along between the rocks, picking your steps, and if you slipped you'd fall and cut yourself, but it was no use blaming the rocks.
stories from a childhood, stories from her present, controversial artist returns to toronto for a retrospective. hometowns bring back a life of memories from her earliest catching caterpillars in ontario's far north to life drawing class at the art college. i was captivated every page. she has a way with words, this margaret atwood.
memories are unreliably coloured: one can only know this later. i don't think im 'later' yet.
identity / the nature of artistic creativity / worth / coming of age.