PDF | Studies of gender identity show gender and sex are not natural but concept 'performative' on Margaret Atwood novel Cat's Eye(). Cat's Eve, Atwood's seventh novel, was received by a few critics as a 'jeu d'esprit' (Oxford But Margaret Atwood does not agree to it. In an interview with Earl. Buy the eBook Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood online from Australia's leading online eBook store. Download eBooks from Booktopia today.
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From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Handmaid's Tale From the Booker Prize-winning author of The Blind Assassin comes a. Home · Cat's eye Author: Atwood Margaret Eye Wonder: Big Cats · Read more · Cats, Cats, Cats! Read more · Cats · Read more · Cats. Read more · Cats. Cat's Eye. Margaret Atwood. Click here if your download doesn"t start automatically Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood Free PDF d0wnl0ad, audio books, books to.
I know what she would say about this, about all of this. There were always books in the house, and they were my entertainment. It's me, it's Elaine. There's some satisfaction in that, more in worse things. Now I think, what if they just couldn't see what they looked like? Up ahead there are huge oblong towers, all of glass, lit up, like enormous gravestones of cold light.
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Our Awards Booktopia's Charities. Are you sure you would like to remove these items from your wishlist? Remove From Wishlist Cancel. Others are poorer and foreign-looking and have dark shawls wound over their heads and around their shoulders. Others are bulgy, dumpy, with clamped self-righteous mouths, their arms festooned with shopping bags; these we associate with sales, with bargain basements.
Cordelia can tell cheap cloth at a glance. There aren't many of these, but they stand out. They wear scarlet outfits or purple ones, and dangly earrings, and hats that look like stage props. Their slips show at the bottoms of their skirts, slips of unusual, suggestive colors.
Anything other than white is suggestive. They have hair dyed straw-blond or baby-blue, or, even more startling against their papery skins, a lusterless old-fur-coat black.
Their lipstick mouths are too big around their mouths, their rouge blotchy, their eyes drawn screw-jiggy around their real eyes. These are the ones most likely to talk to themselves. There's one who says "mutton, mutton," over and over again like a song, another who pokes at our legs with her umbrella and says "bare naked. They have a certain gaiety to them, a power of invention, they don't care what people think.
They have escaped, though what it is they've escaped from isn't clear to us. We think that their bizarre costumes, their verbal tics, are chosen, and that when the time comes we also will be free to choose. I'm going to have a shepherd's crook. Now I think, what if they just couldn't see what they looked like? Maybe it was as simple as that: I'm having that trouble myself now: Who knows what faces I'm making, what kind of modern art I'm drawing onto myself?
Even when I've got the distance adjusted, I vary. I am transitional; some days I look like a worn-out thirty-five, others like a sprightly fifty. So much depends on the light, and the way you squint. I eat in pink restaurants, which are better for the skin. Yellow ones turn you yellow.
I actually spend time thinking about this. Vanity is becoming a nuisance; I can see why women give it up, eventually. But I'm not ready for that yet. Lately I've caught myself humming out loud, or walking along the street with my mouth slightly open, drooling a little.
Only a little; but it may be the thin edge of the wedge, the crack in the wall that will open, later, onto what? What vistas of shining eccentricity, or madness? There is no one I would ever tell this to, except Cordelia. But which Cordelia? The one I have conjured up, the one with the rolltop boots and the turned-up collar, or the one before, or the one after? There is never only one, of anyone. If I were to meet Cordelia again, what would I tell her about myself? The truth, or whatever would make me look good?
Probably the latter.
I still have that need. I haven't seen her for a long time.
I wasn't expecting to see her. But now that I'm back here I can hardly walk down a street without a glimpse of her, turning a corner, entering a door. It goes without saying that these fragments of her-a shoulder, beige, camel's-hair, the side of a face, the back of a leg-belong to women who, seen whole, are not Cordelia.
I have no idea what she would look like now. Is she fat, have her breasts sagged, does she have little gray hairs at the corners of her mouth? Does she wear glasses with fashionable frames, has she had her lids lifted, does she streak or tint?
All of these things are possible: I think of Cordelia examining the growing pouches under her eyes, the skin, up close, loosened and crinkled like elbows. She sighs, pats in cream, which is the right kind.
Cordelia would know the right kind. She takes stock of her hands, which are shrinking a little, warping a little, as mine are. Gnarling has set in, the withering of the mouth; the outlines of dewlaps are beginning to be visible, down toward the chin, in the dark glass of subway windows.
Nobody else notices these things yet, unless they look closely; but Cordelia and I are in the habit of looking closely. She drops the bath towel, which is green, a muted sea-green to match her eyes, looks over her shoulder, sees in the mirror the dog's-neck folds of skin above the waist, the buttocks drooping like wattles, and, turning, the dried fern of hair.
I think of her in a sweatsuit, sea-green as well, working out in some gym or other, sweating like a pig. I know what she would say about this, about all of this. How we giggled, with repugnance and delight, when we found the wax her older sisters used on their legs, congealed in a little pot, stuck full of bristles. The grotesqueries of the body were always of interest to her. I think of encountering her without warning.
Perhaps in a worn coat and a knitted hat like a tea cosy, sitting on a curb, with two plastic bags filled with her only possessions, muttering to herself. Don't you recognize me?
I say. And she does, but pretends not to. She gets up and shambles away on swollen feet, old socks poking through the holes in her rubber boots, glancing back over her shoulder. There's some satisfaction in that, more in worse things. I watch from a window, or a balcony so I can see better, as some man chases Cordelia along the sidewalk below me, catches up with her, punches her in the ribs-I can't handle the face-throws her down.
But I can't go any farther. Better to switch to an oxygen tent. Cordelia is unconscious. I have been summoned, too late, to her hospital bedside. There are flowers, sickly smelling, wilting in a vase, tubes going into her arms and nose, the sound of terminal breathing. I hold her hand. Her face is puffy, white, like an unbaked biscuit, with yellowish circles under the closed eyes.
Her eyelids don't flicker but there's a faint twitching of her fingers, or do I imagine it? I sit there wondering whether to pull the tubes out of her arms, the plug out of the wall.
No brain activity, the doctors say. Am I crying? And who would have summoned me? Even better: I've never seen an iron lung, but the newspapers had pictures of children in iron lungs, back when people still got polio. These pictures-the iron lung a cylinder, a gigantic sausage roll of metal, with a head sticking out one end of it, always a girl's head, the hair flowing across the pillow, the eyes large, nocturnal-fascinated me, more than stories about children who went out on thin ice and fell through and were drowned, or children who played on the railroad tracks and had their arms and legs cut off by trains.
You could get polio without knowing how or where, end up in an iron lung without knowing why. Something you breathed in or ate, or picked up from the dirty money other people had touched. You never knew. The iron lungs were used to frighten us, and as reasons why we couldn't do things we wanted to.
No public swimming pools, no crowds in summer. Do you want to spend the rest of your life in an iron lung? A stupid question; though for me such a life, with its inertia and pity, had its secret attractions. Cordelia in an iron lung, then, being breathed, as an accordion is played. A mechanical wheezing sound comes from around her. She is fully conscious, but unable to move or speak.
I come into the room, moving, speaking. Our eyes meet. Cordelia must be living somewhere. She could be within a mile of me, she could be right on the next block. But finally I have no idea what I would do if I bumped into her by accident, on the subway for instance, sitting across from me, or waiting on the platform reading the ads. We would stand side by side, looking at a large red mouth stretching itself around a chocolate bar, and I would turn to her and say: It's me, it's Elaine.
Would she turn, give a theatrical shriek? Would she ignore me? Or would I ignore her, given the chance? Or would I go up to her wordlessly, throw my arms around her? Or take her by the shoulders, and shake and shake. I've been walking for hours it seems, down the hill to the downtown, where the streetcars no longer run.
It's evening, one of those gray watercolor washes, like liquid dust, the city comes up with in fall. The weather at any rate is still familiar. Now I've reached the place where we used to get off the streetcar, stepping into the curbside mounds of January slush, into the grating wind that cut up from the lake between the flat-roofed dowdy buildings that were for us the closest thing to urbanity. But this part of the city is no longer flat, dowdy, shabby-genteel.
Tubular neon in cursive script decorates the restored brick facades, and there's a lot of brass trim, a lot of real estate, a lot of money. Up ahead there are huge oblong towers, all of glass, lit up, like enormous gravestones of cold light. Frozen assets.
I don't look much at the towers though, or the people passing me in their fashionable getups, imports, handcrafted leather, suede, whatever. Instead I look down at the sidewalk, like a tracker. I can feel my throat tightening, a pain along the jawline. I've started to chew my fingers again.