Art is a journey into the most unknown thing of all - oneself. Nobody knows his own frontiers… I don’t think I’d ever want to take a road if I knew where it led.
The passing of a soul is light, extremely light, almost silence.
I turn around.
I feel Monday’s well-shaven face lightly
caress my left shoulder
most cherished part
most crucial here and now
» T for tout: This is a Photograph of Me, by Margaret Atwood
It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;
then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.
In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.
(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.
I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.
It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or how small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion.
But if you look long enough
you will see me.)
from: Margaret Atwood, Selected poems, 1965-1975, Vol. 1 (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt), 1987