![]() These are the ones most likely to talk to themselves. Their lipstick mouths are too big around their mouths, their rouge blotchy, their eyes drawn screw-jiggy around their real eyes. They have hair dyed straw-blond or baby-blue, or, even more startling against their papery skins, a lusterless old-fur-coat black. Their slips show at the bottoms of their skirts, slips of unusual, suggestive colors. They wear scarlet outfits or purple ones, and dangly earrings, and hats that look like stage props. There aren’t many of these, but they stand out. “Ticky-tack.” Then there are the ones who have not resigned themselves, who still try for an effect of glamour. Cordelia can tell cheap cloth at a glance. Others are bulgy, dumpy, with clamped self-righteous mouths, their arms festooned with shopping bags these we associate with sales, with bargain basements. Others are poorer and foreign-looking and have dark shawls wound over their heads and around their shoulders. Some are respectably dressed, in tailored Harris tweed coats and matching gloves and tidy no-nonsense hats with small brisk feathers jauntily at one side. On the streetcars there are always old ladies, or we think of them as old. Our mouths are tough, crayon-red, shiny as nails. In our pockets are stuffed the kerchiefs our mothers make us wear but that we take off as soon as we’re out of their sight. ![]() We wear long wool coats with tie belts, the collars turned up to look like those of movie stars, and rubber boots with the tops folded down and men’s work socks inside. We’re impervious, we scintillate, we are thirteen. She can outstare anyone, and I am almost as good. Cordelia sits with nonchalance, nudging me with her elbow now and then, staring blankly at the other people with her gray-green eyes, opaque and glinting as metal. The streetcar is muggy with twice-breathed air and the smell of wool. Cordelia and I are riding on the streetcar, going downtown, as we do on winter Saturdays. It puts the nature of time in its place, and also Stephen, who calls us “the teenagers,” as if he himself is not one. Cordelia rolls her eyes, as I knew she would. Chapter 2 “Stephen says time is not a line,” I say. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing. You don’t look back along time but down through it, like But I began then to think of time as having a shape, something you could see, like a series of liquid transparencies, one laid on top of another. He was already moving away from the imprecision of words. I didn’t understand what he meant, but maybe he didn’t explain it very well. It was my brother Stephen who told me that, when he wore his raveling maroon sweater to study in and spent a lot of time standing on his head so that the blood would run down into his brain and nourish it. If you can bend space you can bend time also, and if you knew enough and could move faster than light you could travel backward in time and exist in two places at once. HAWKING A Brief History of Time One - Iron Lung Chapter 1 Time is not a line but a dimension, like the dimensions of space. EDUARDO GALEANO Memory of Fire: Genesis Why do we remember the past, and not the future? -STEPHEN W. ![]() Since then anyone who kills receives in his body, without wanting or knowing it, the soul of his victim. When the Tukanas cut off her head, the old woman collected her own blood in her hands and blew it towards the sun. Sanders, Gene Goldberg, John Gallagher, and Dorothy Goulbourne. Nan Talese, Nancy Evans, Ellen Seligman, Adrienne Clarkson, Avie Bennett, Liz Calder, and Anna Porter and to my indefatigable assistant, Melanie Dugan as well as to Donya Peroff, Michael Bradley, Alison Parker, Gary Foster, Cathy Gill, Kathy Minialoff, Fanny Silberman, James Polk, Coleen Quinn, Rosie Abella, C. Many thanks to Graeme Gibson, for undergoing this novel to my agent, Phoebe Larmore to my English agents, Vivienne Schuster and Vanessa Holt to my editors and publishers. Hawking, for their entrancing books on these subjects, and to my nephew, David Atwood, for his enlightening remarks about strings. The physics and cosmology sideswiped herein are indebted to Paul Davies, Carl Sagan, John Gribbin, and Stephen W. Atwood, among others and by the Isaacs Gallery, the old original. Nevertheless, they have been influenced by visual artists Joyce Wieland, Jack Chambers, Charles Pachter, Erica Heron, Gail Geltner, Dennis Burton, Louis de Niverville, Heather Cooper, William Kurelek, Greg Curnoe, and pop-surreal potter Lenore M. Cat’s Eye Margaret Atwood Foreword The paintings and other modern works of art in this book do not exist.
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