“Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” says the tendentious Polonius of Shakespeare’s Hamlet to his impatient son, Laertes, “for loan oft loses both itself and friend / And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.” In other words, if you lend a friend some money and he doesn’t pay you back, you’ll end up being angry with him, and he with you. And if you borrow, you’ll be spending money that isn’t yours and that you haven’t earned, rather than managing within your income.
Margaret Atwood – Payback
This is the story of Roz – the CEO of a woman’s magazine. She’s good with her money and she has some good insight as to what it means to be a woman boss.
Quote from “Robber Bride” from Margaret Atwood (p112)
See the TURTLE of Enormous Girth
On his shell he holds the Earth.
His thought is slow, but always kind.
He holds us all within his mind.
On his back all vows are made;
He sees the truth but mayn’t aid.
He loves the land and loves the sea,
And even loves a child like me.
“The moment you introduce the element of IT, which is an interdimensional evil entity, the presence of the turtle comes with it, as a counterbalance,” Muschietti told SYFY WIRE. “It doesn’t seem to pay a big role, but the turtle is there. Like all mythologies, there’s a god of good and a god of evil. I didn’t want to use it as a fantastic character, but it’s hinted, every time the kids are in danger or something, I wanted to hint at the presence of the turtle. It might have a bigger role in the second one.”
“In the book, they somehow address the turtle and say ‘the turtle couldn’t help us,'” he said. “But I think in the second part, the turtle will try to help them. In the second movie, the turtle left a few clues to their childhood that they don’t remember. They have to retrieve those memories from the summer of 1989, and that’s how we jump back to 1989. The keys to defeating to Pennywise are left in the past, and as adults, they don’t remember.”
Andy Muschietti – Director of IT
Slowly Isolde rose to her feet and stepped down from the choir stalls to face the crowded church. “I am no stormbringer”, she said, speaking simply and loudly so that her words echoed off the stone walls.
I am no witch. I am a woman of good repute and good behaviour. I am a woman who does not obey a father since my father is dead, nor do I obey a husband, since I have no fortune and no man will take me without a dowry.
I don’t obey my brother, since he is false and faithless. So you see me as I am, a woman without a man to represent her, a woman alone in the world.
But none of this –none of this makes me a bad woman. It makes me an unlucky one. I am a woman who would not knowingly do a wicked act.
I cannot prove this to you, you have to trust me, as you trust your mothers and your wives and your sisters.
I have to call on you to think of me with generosity, as a good woman of high repute, raised to be a lady in a castle.
Stormbringer – Philippa Gregory
O, Dracula, unlikely hero! O flying leukaemia, in your cloak like a living umbrella, a membrane of black leather which you unwind from within yourse and lift like a stripteaser’s fan as you bend with emanciated lust over the neck, flawless and bland, of whatever woman is longing for obliteration, here and now in her best negligee.
Why was it given to you by whoever stole your soul to transform yourself into bat and wolf and only those?
Why not a vampire chipmunk, a duck, a gerbil? Why not a vampire turtle?
Now that would be a plot
Excerpt from The Good Bones by Margaret Atwood
“May the roads rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rain fall soft upon your fields
And, until we meet again,
May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.
The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.
It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.
It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow. I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life.
And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.
“Most of us will. We’ll choose knowledge no matter what, we’ll maim ourselves in the process, we’ll stick our hands into the flames for it if necessary. Curiosity is not our only motive: love or grief or despair or hatred is what drives us on. We’ll spy relentlessly on the dead: we’ll open their letters, we’ll read their journals, we’ll go through their trash, hoping for a hint, a final word, an explanation, from those who have deserted us–who’ve left us holding the bag, which is often a good deal emptier than we’d supposed.
But what about those who plant such clues, for us to stumble on? Why do they bother? Egotism? Pity? Revenge? A simple claim to existence, like scribbling your initials on a washroom wall? The combination of presence and anonymity–confession without penance, truth without consequences–it has its attractions. Getting the blood off your hands, one way or another.
Those who leave such evidence can scarcely complain if strangers come along afterwards and poke their noses into every single thing that would once have been none of their business. And not only strangers: lovers, friends, relations. We’re voyeurs, all of us. Why should we assume that anything in the past is ours for the taking, simply because we’ve found it? We’re all grave robbers, once we open the doors locked by others.
But only locked. The rooms and their contents have been left intact. If those leaving them had wanted oblivion, there was always fire.”
– Margaret Atwood – The Blind Assassin
“Sometimes I close my eyes and paint these walls a different color. I imagine I’m wearing warm socks and sitting by a fire. I imagine someone’s given me a book to read, a story to take me away form the torture of my own mind. I want to be someone else somewhere else with something else to fill my mind. I want to run, to feel the wind tug at my hair.
I want to pretend that this is just a story within a story. That this cell is just a scene, that these hands don’t belong to me, that this window leads to somewhere beautiful if only I could break it.
I pretend this pillow is clean, I pretend this bed is soft. I pretend and pretend and pretend until the world becomes so breathtaking behind my eyelids that I can no longer contain it. But then my eyes fly open and I’m caught around the throat by a pair of hands that won’t stop suffocating suffocating suffocating.
My thoughts, I think, will soon be sound. My mind, I hope, will soon be found.”
― Tahereh Mafi,
it was about men, the kind who caused women to fall. I did not ascribe any intentions to these men.
They were like the weather, they didn’t have a mind. They merely drenched you or struck you like lightning and moved on, mindless as blizzards. Or they were like rocks, a line of sharp slippery rocks with jagged edges. You could walk with care along between the rocks, picking your steps, and if you slipped you’d fall and cut yourself, but it was no use blaming the rocks.
That must be what was meant by fallen women. Fallen women were women who had fallen onto men and hurt themselves. There was some suggestion of downward motion, against one’s will and not with the will of anyone else. Fallen women were not pulled-down women or pushed women, merely fallen.
Of course there was Eve and the Fall; but there was nothing about falling in that story, which was only about eating, like most children’s stories.