Alias Grace

by Margaret Atwood

Deliberately struggles, watching him through the lashes of her almost-closed eyes to see the effect she’s having on him. Writhes like an artful eel. Begs like a captive. Slippery, a skin of sweat on her, hers or his, her dank hair across her face, across his mouth, every night. Imprisoned. Her skin where he’s licked her shines like satin. It can’t go on.

He knows he’s reaching the end of the repertoire; the end of what Rachel can offer; the end of her. But what will come before the end? And the end itself—what shape will it take? There must be some conclusion, some finale.

Melting anguish is a good deal less attractive now that he actually has to contend with it up close and in the flesh.

P.S. Any further communication from you, will be destroyed unread.

And then she began to cry, and when I asked her why she was doing that, she said it was because I was to have a happy ending, and it was just like a book; and I wondered what books she’d been reading.

To go from a familiar thing, however undesirable, into the unknown, is always a matter for apprehension, and I suppose that is why so many people are afraid to die.

The truth is that very few understand the truth about forgiveness. It is not the culprits who need to be forgiven; rather it is the victims, because they are the ones who cause all the trouble. If they were only less weak and careless, and more foresightful, and if they would keep from blundering into difficulties, think of all the sorrow in the world that would be spared.