The Handmaid's Tale

by Margaret Atwood

But a chair, sunlight, flowers: these are not to be dismissed.

Or, a quaint expression you sometimes hear, still, from older people: I hear where you’re coming from, as if the voice itself were a traveler, arriving from a distant place. Which it would be, which it is.

It was an accident, said Cora. No such thing, said Rita. Everything is meant.

We have learned to see the world in gasps.

When we think of the past it’s the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that.

We thought we had such problems. How were we to know we were happy?

How were we to know we were happy, even then? Because we at least had that: arms, around.

But people will do anything rather than admit that their lives have no meaning. No use, that is. No plot.

When there’s meat they cut it up for me ahead of time, as if I’m lacking manual skills or teeth. I have both, however. That’s why I’m not allowed a knife.