Reading Margaret Atwood is like standing up at the tee of a long
par-5 hole on a bright clear spring afternoon. A good drive is
vital if one wants to hit the green in three strokes and two-putt
for par.
One tees the ball just the right height, addresses it, waggles
the driver a couple of times and following the gospel of Jack
Nickalus draws the club slowly into the backewing, the torso
winding into a spiral, a tautened spring, and at the top of the
arc the coil is triggered, the varnished persimmon ovoid crashes
against gravity and streaks toward the idle ball. . .
Behind the ear the whip of the clubhead hisses in its descent,
the instantaneousness of the Tao is glued into the helical spin
and all, all, is entire and complete.
There is a dull snick.
Dreamily, one lifts one's head in amaze just in time to catch the
ball skewering off at a right angle, flicking my partner's
cigarette from his fingers (which will upset him), caroming off a
tree (which will upset the tree) hitting the ground in a quick
skid and knocking over my beer bottle (which upsets me), and
dribbling to a halt six feet up the fairway.
Not very far.
That's what reading Margaret Atwood is like.
