Nell is coming to terms with life after her beloved partner Tig’s death in a story from Atwood’s first collection since The Testaments jointly won the Booker prize in 2019, and since her own partner, Graeme Gibson, died in the same year
It seems we must now begin a letter this way, with a Victorian tip of the hat to physical well-being: it’s become a social prerequisite, as leaving calling cards once was.
A few old cronies clinging onto the cliff’s edge, having tea and cookies in the sun and spilling crumbs and milk on their not entirely clean T-shirts, or distressing their neighbours by trying – slowly, ponderously, slipping dangerously on the ice – to shovel the snow off their walks.
Have I gone into the dark tunnel, dressed in mourning black with gloves and a veil, and come out the other end, all cheery and wearing bright colours and loaded for bear?
Was it better to have witnessed a lingering fadeout, with pain but with lots of time to say goodbye, or on the other hand was a sudden stroke or heart failure preferable, easier for him, harder for you?
Then there’s a mini-explosion, and all the items that have been gathered together – the letters, the books, the passports, the photos, the favourite things kept in drawers and boxes or on shelves – all of this is strewn in the wake of the departing rocket or comet or wave of energy or silent breath, and the widows must sweep and sort and donate and bequeath and discard.
We phone one another, all in a hand-wringing dither, and say, “What am I possibly supposed to do with … fill in the blank?” We offer lots of suggestions, none of which solves the central problem.
The original article contains 1,931 words, the summary contains 254 words. Saved 87%. I’m a bot and I’m open source!
This is the best summary I could come up with:
It seems we must now begin a letter this way, with a Victorian tip of the hat to physical well-being: it’s become a social prerequisite, as leaving calling cards once was.
A few old cronies clinging onto the cliff’s edge, having tea and cookies in the sun and spilling crumbs and milk on their not entirely clean T-shirts, or distressing their neighbours by trying – slowly, ponderously, slipping dangerously on the ice – to shovel the snow off their walks.
Have I gone into the dark tunnel, dressed in mourning black with gloves and a veil, and come out the other end, all cheery and wearing bright colours and loaded for bear?
Was it better to have witnessed a lingering fadeout, with pain but with lots of time to say goodbye, or on the other hand was a sudden stroke or heart failure preferable, easier for him, harder for you?
Then there’s a mini-explosion, and all the items that have been gathered together – the letters, the books, the passports, the photos, the favourite things kept in drawers and boxes or on shelves – all of this is strewn in the wake of the departing rocket or comet or wave of energy or silent breath, and the widows must sweep and sort and donate and bequeath and discard.
We phone one another, all in a hand-wringing dither, and say, “What am I possibly supposed to do with … fill in the blank?” We offer lots of suggestions, none of which solves the central problem.
The original article contains 1,931 words, the summary contains 254 words. Saved 87%. I’m a bot and I’m open source!