Rating: 4/5

Margaret Atwood is a writer of unparalleled mystic descanting a cornucopia of human proclivities and aberrations. The marvel of her writing is rooted in analysing the capriciousness of human infringement to the complexities of patriarchal delusions, political chicaneries, intoxicating freedom and hubristic melodrama of “who catches the fish first.”

Most of us are familiar with Atwood’s finest writings conjuring the falsehood of human preferences to suit their idiosyncratic mind-set. The poignant “The Handmaid’s Tale” to the sclerosis tic reprisals in “The Testaments” soignee ensconced in our book-shelves elucidates the captivity of women to the patriarchal doh-nut of subjugation, where an ignominious end starts another circle of disparagement. “Burning Questions” too is an agglomeration of essays, book reviews, political and climatic assessments and informal extrapolation on issues that streptococcusly make the slope slippery for an unprecedented fall.

Eloquently written spanning two decades, Atwood makes a conscientious effort to decimate human solipsism and upsurge the metaphysics of compassion and egalitarianism. Her writings are a compendium of human personification of an unsettled mind to hedge-hammer the sprawling wings of lustrous “freedom” – a maverick insurgent it is or a carapsse bereft of the messy-muddles of life? Or a plebiscite of an incoherent mind to behave as a neophyte unable to scourge the deranged anomalies of nature!

Atwood looks into these matters without any inhibition to spook a wheel at the defenders and in the way manages to play the flute with her admirers. What Atwood foresees for future is a peripatetic struggle to give away follies that sabotage the environment; for it subsumes us to cripple the prodigious resources we are born from and live by—stentoriously lambasting the inequalities giving rise to intolerable climatic conditions which would eventually burn us off our rigidity.

Are we humans too ignorant of what implicates are own consciousness? We volley high of our achievements but what goes down the drain to give a pleasant slate on the back is a refutable silence of prejudiced infiltrations. Atwood is an inspiration in herself but presses her fingers ceremoniously to talk about writers and authors who have touched her life—their preoccupations are no different from ours; it’s just that the battle-axe of words is a power to exfoliate the gloomy pulverisations of life.


The abundance of literary work in the book is a reflection of how the world works. Our denial of the life’s plenipotentiary nuances could be reflective of another’s acceptance of power to rule. Our inability to accept patriarchal blues could be hard-core feminism, but to some it could be a deviation from the moral structures of life. The thatch of feeble-rusted bed could be a threat silently ambushed by a thump of tumultuous wind but to some the hard-bricked roof is a sheltering carapsse from the nonchalant plagues of life.

That’s Margaret Atwood – opinionated and flamboyant in her assessment of life.Expounding tonnes of knowledge and introspection!! 

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