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AN OUTRAGEOUS SIMILE 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. |