Jag har, efter lite möda och besvär, läst ut Herta Müllers Hjärtdjur. I helgen ska jag istället gräva ner mig i Margaret Atwoods Bluebeard’s Egg, en novellsamling som jag genast fastnade för med beskrivningen:
A supreme observer of relations between men and women, Margaret Atwood explores in this intriguing collection some less than conventional bonds: that between a political activist and his cat, a woman and her dead psychiatrist, an artist and the men she stalks to use as naked models, a potter and the adoring poets who so smother and mythologise her that she is driven into the arms of her accountant.
A man who finds himself surrounded by women who are becoming paler, more silent and literally smaller. A woman’s intimate life is strangely dominated by the fear of nuclear warfare. A melancholy, teenage love is swept away by a Canadian hurricane, while a tired, middle-aged affection is rekindled by a spectacle of rare Jamaican birds.