Margaret Atwood had to be persuaded to write a memoir. The thought of writing about herself initially seemed “dead boring. Who wants to read about someone sitting at a desk messing up blank sheets of paper?” Yet, she continues, time passed and the possibility of a memoir took on a “lurid phosphorescent glow. ‘Wasn’t there something appealing in the idea?’ my sinister alter ego whispered … I could thank my benefactors, reward my friends, trash my enemies and pay off scores long forgotten by everyone but me.”
Subtitled “A Memoir of Sorts”, Book of Lives is the Canadian author’s account of her loves, losses and literary achievements (she has written just over 50 books, including novels, short stories and poetry collections), and a fine showcase for her wisdom and wit. What little score-settling she includes is purely for the punchline. When a poet told Atwood in the early 1970s that she wrote like a man – he intended it as a compliment – she told him he forgot the punctuation. “What you meant was, ‘She writes. Like a man’.”
