❝ I want to hijack world history with you.
I want to kill monarchs
and infiltrate theocracies
and assault state capitols
and set the captives free.
I want to be the prophet enacting your high-strategy will,
The favored, faithful first general of your imperial army.
The sage philosopher turning hearts towards you,
Oh darling, let’s be kings, I’m a killer in a crown.
Let’s build monuments so great God takes notice of us,
lets hide from His sight in a tangle of silken bedsheets
and toast to our infamy with goblets beaten from stolen gold.
Let our names be feared and revered and let us taste eternity
unwary of the cost.
They say this is love but I know it’s self-immolation,
the ignition of electricity between us.
So let us adorn ourselves with smoke and flame
drip blood rubies and pile up devotees like toy soilders,
let us dance, darling, on the ash and sing
‘our kingdom come, our will be done,
in thee as it is in me.’ ❞
❝ Is that how we lived then? But we lived as usual. Everyone does, most of the time. Whatever is going on is as usual. We lived, as usual, by ignoring. Ignoring isn’t the same as ignorance, you have to work at it. Nothing changes instantaneously: in a gradually heating bathtub you’d be boiled to death before you knew it. There were stories in the newspapers, of course, but they were about other women, and the men who did such things were other men. None of them were the men we knew. The newspaper stories were like dreams to us, bad dreams dreamt by others. How awful, we would say, and they were, but they were awful without being believable. They were too melodramatic, they had a dimension that was not the dimension of our lives. We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us freedom. We lived in the gaps between stories. ❞
— Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale