“Sometimes — increasingly, as time went by — there were bruises, purple, then blue, then yellow. It was remarkable how easily I bruised, said Richard, smiling. A mere touch would do it. He had never known a woman to bruise so easily. It came from being so young and delicate.
He favoured thighs, where it wouldn’t show. Anything overt might get in the way of his ambitions.
I sometimes felt as if these marks on my body were a kind of code, which blossomed, then faded, like invisible ink held to a candle. But if they were a code, who held the key to it?
I was sand, I was snow — written on, rewritten, smoothed over.”
from The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood pg. 371
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“What fabrications they are, mothers. Scarecrows, wax dolls for us to stick pins into, crude diagrams. We deny them an existence of their own, we make them up to suit ourselves — our own hungers, our own wishes, our own deficiencies. Now tha I’ve been one myself, I know”
from The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood pg. 94
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