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"The Aliens arrive
We like the part where we get saved.
We like the part where we get destroyed.
Why do those feel so similar?
Either way, it’s an end.
No more just being alive.
No more pretend."
i returned my copy to the library before i could write this review, but trust me in that it was dog-eared ferociously. margaret atwood's dearly is mostly without warmth. she traipses through the past, through ghost cats and invisible men and a world that we have ruined, but does it without any easy nostalgia. this is a collection that made me deeply miserable; atwood's unrelenting focus on the inevitability of death can become almost suffocating. but she balances these morose pieces with a kind of playfulness (aliens! sex! sea creatures! BIRDS AND MUSHROOMS!) and an acceptance of life as she has lived it, without many regrets, which offers a counter to the more blunt poems where she shakes Death's hand.
"It’s late, it’s very late;
Too late for dancing.
Still, sing what you can.
Turn up the light: sing on,
sing: On."
We like the part where we get saved.
We like the part where we get destroyed.
Why do those feel so similar?
Either way, it’s an end.
No more just being alive.
No more pretend."
i returned my copy to the library before i could write this review, but trust me in that it was dog-eared ferociously. margaret atwood's dearly is mostly without warmth. she traipses through the past, through ghost cats and invisible men and a world that we have ruined, but does it without any easy nostalgia. this is a collection that made me deeply miserable; atwood's unrelenting focus on the inevitability of death can become almost suffocating. but she balances these morose pieces with a kind of playfulness (aliens! sex! sea creatures! BIRDS AND MUSHROOMS!) and an acceptance of life as she has lived it, without many regrets, which offers a counter to the more blunt poems where she shakes Death's hand.
"It’s late, it’s very late;
Too late for dancing.
Still, sing what you can.
Turn up the light: sing on,
sing: On."