THE TENT. By Margaret Atwood. 160pp. Bloomsbury. Pounds 12.99. 0 7475 8225 4
Margaret Atwood tries to involve us in her not-unconnected stories
Last year, the newspapers reported that Margaret Atwood was becoming a cyborg.
She was, according to the press, in the process of developing a remote signing device, or "signomotron", as a response to the pressure of signing tours. Fans could bring one of her books to any local bookshop, and with the touch of a button, an electronic hand would reproduce her signature. The amount of coverage this story generated bears witness to our fascination with the ways in which machines touch us. Atwood's long-distance autographing technique meanwhile demonstrates her partic-ular concern with how a storyteller might keep her hand in, and keep in touch with her audience.
At first glance, The Tent, Atwood's latest collection of short stories, appears a little out of touch. The small, hardback illustrated volume, with a wood-blocked, red-and-black cover, gives the impression of something homespun, produced by an occasional kaftan-wearing pamphleteer circa 1970. But, as is usually the case with kaftans, you can't help but wonder what is going on underneath.
The stories suggest something a bit fiddly, and not very reassuring. Take the opening of "Winter's Tales":
Once upon a time, you say, there were germs with horns. They lived in the toilet and could only be defeated by gallons and gallons of bleach. You could commit suicide by drinking this bleach and some women did.
The young look at you, wide-eyed. Or maybe they look down on you. They've become very tall. How young are the young these days? It varies. Some of them are quite old. But they are still credulous because you were there once upon a time, and they weren't . . . . Let me tell you about meatloaf, you say, lowering your voice, as the already pale faces around you turn ashen. Yes -meat loaf, and enemas, and bulb-headed syringes used for what they called "feminine hygiene" -the three are not unconnected you say in a thrilling whisper.
By now the young are staring at you with fascinated horror, as if you're about to pull off one of your legs revealing a green and mossy amputated stump.
