It's been a long while since I've revisited Cat's Eye, yet it still resonates (and perhaps is even more striking for me today than it was ten years ago). I was newly horrified with the small cruelties of girls growing up, newly tickled by the ruminations on development, and memory, and art. What is permanent, and what will shift? Time takes form for the narrator:
I began then to think of time as having a shape, something you could see, like a series of liquid transparencies, one laid on top of another. You don't look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing. Nothing goes away.
Truly lovely to revisit Atwood at her best.