Petite
or not, Atwood is a force to be reckoned with. She mixes dry wit
with courteous attention and exuberant playfulness. At dinner (she
had a salad), she made a point of directing her comments to all
of us – at various points in the meal. She looked each of
us directly in the eye, acknowledging that even the comparatively
silent among us were nevertheless actively engaging with the conversations
taking place.
The conversation topics ranged from relations between critics and
writers, to the comparative heights of Europeans and North Americans,
to the drinking habits of various Canadian authors (complete with
specific anecdotes and wry commentary). Atwood had come to Ottawa
to do a book reading at the National Library in conjunction with
Nicholas Hoare books and the Writers’ Festival that afternoon,
April 23. In the evening on campus, she presented a slide show,
read from her three most recent works, and signed as many books
as the public brought.
While open to the general public, the campus event was part of a
weekend-long symposium on Atwood hosted by the Department of English
– a symposium that, despite what the Citizen’s Paul
Gessell might suggest, Atwood herself supported.
As time wore on, bringing us, the symposium chair, his family, the
femme de l’heure and me, closer to the time we were scheduled
to return to Tabaret Chapel, the focus sharpened on the technical
details of her talk – after two months on the road and countless
reading and lecture tours, Atwood still worries, it seems, about
each individual appearance she makes.
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