During a busy rush hour at a downtown Toronto café, Margaret Atwood, Canada’s most renowned writer, blends into the background. At 85, dressed in dark clothes with a hat concealing her white, curly hair, she chooses the terrace on a crisp autumn day to speak quietly with her usual irony about her long-awaited memoirs.
Atwood initially doubted the purpose of writing her memoirs. She questions,
“Who wants to read the story of someone sitting at a desk wrestling with a blank page?”Ultimately, she admits to doing it despite thinking
“It’s boring enough to die of boredom.”
In their conversation, Atwood also reflects on President Trump, the lasting influence of The Handmaid’s Tale, the scope of Canadian literature, and the realities of growing older and facing mortality.
She observes the limited roles society assigns to older women, stating:
“Older women are only allowed to be two things: wise old women or wicked old witches.”
On a day when autumn cautiously shows signs of winter, Atwood’s quiet presence and reflective tone add depth to discussions about creativity, fame, and aging.
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