She writes like an angel, it says of Laura on the back of one of the editions of The Blind Assassin. An American edition, as I recall, with gold scrollwork on the cover: they set a lot of store by angels in those parts. In point of fact angels don't write much. They record sins and the names of the dammed and the saved, or they appear as disembodied hands and scribble warnings on walls. Or they deliver messages, few of which are good news: God be with you is not an unmixed blessing.
by Margaret Atwood
(0 Reviews)

The quote reflects a sentiment about the nature of angels and their role in literature, particularly in the context of Laura's writing in The Blind Assassin. It suggests that while angels are often idealized and associated with beauty, their function is more about recording human failings rather than creating art or inspiring stories. The description of Laura's writing as angelic contrasts with the notion that angels seldom communicate uplifting messages, portraying a dichotomy between the beauty of art and the burden of truth that angels represent.

This duality emphasizes the complexity of Laura's character and her writing. While the exterior may suggest something heavenly due to the decorative presentation of the book and the praise on its cover, the reality is much more nuanced. Angels are depicted as messengers with somber duties, hinting that Laura's work, although beautiful, might carry deeper, perhaps darker, truths about existence and human nature. Thus, the writing serves not only to enchant but also to confront the reader with uncomfortable realities.

Stats

Categories
Votes
0
Page views
3
Update
February 13, 2025

Rate the Quote

Add Comment & Review

User Reviews

Based on 0 reviews
5 Star
0
4 Star
0
3 Star
0
2 Star
0
1 Star
0
Add Comment & Review
We'll never share your email with anyone else.
More »

Popular quotes

Taffy. He thinks about taffy. He thinks it would take his teeth out now, but he would eat it anyhow, if it meant eating it with her.
by Mitch Albom
Small towns are like metronomes; with the slightest flick, the beat changes.
by Mitch Albom
Look, if you say that science will eventually prove there is no God, on that I must differ. No matter how small they take it back, to a tadpole, to an atom, there is always something they can't explain, something that created it all at the end of the search. And no matter how far they try to go the other way – to extend life, play around with the genes, clone this, clone that, live to one hundred and fifty – at some point, life is over. And then what happens? When the life comes to an end? I shrugged. You see? He leaned back. He smiled. When you come to the end, that's where God begins.
by Mitch Albom
You say you should have died instead of me. But during my time on earth, people died instead of me, too. It happens every day. When lightning strikes a minute after you are gone, or an airplane crashes that you might have been on. When your colleague falls ill and you do not. We think such things are random. But there is a balance to it all. One withers, another grows. Birth and death are part of a whole.
by Mitch Albom
we get so many lives between birth and death. A life to be a child. A life to come of age. A life to wander, to settle, to fall in love, to parent, to test our promise, to realize our mortality-and, in some lucky cases, to do something after that realization.
by Mitch Albom
The nun said, I can forgive the language. I'm not sure I can forgive your making an obscene gesture at your mother. Ya gotta know her, Holland said. If you knew her, you'd give her the finger, too.
by John Sandford
But an ink brush, she thinks, is a skeleton key for a prisoner's mind.
by David Mitchell
There's lying," says Mum, fishing out the envelope she wrote the directions on from her handbag, "which is wrong, and there's creating the right impression, which is necessary.
by David Mitchell
Unlimited power in the hands of limited people always leads to cruelty.
by David Mitchell
Ain't you supposed to have peace when you die?'You have peace,' the old woman said, 'when you make it with yourself.
by Mitch Albom