Margaret Atwood’s “Up” illustrates the conflict between the conscious and unconscious mind, between reason and emotion. This tension, introduced through the poet’s use of the speaker and supported by the poem’s imagery, tone, and language, constitutes the central and underlying theme of the piece. Atwood carries this struggle through each stanza, from the recognition of morning to the deathbed, as the speaker conveys new elements of this friction. Focusing on time as a prison for the body and soul, the poet describes the clash, as reason and the desires of the conscious attempt to overcome emotion and the restraints of the unconscious. As the situation develops, reason seeks to understand emotion until finally the reader is forced to turn inward and draw his own conclusions.
Atwood’s use of the speaker to represent consciousness and reason immediately introduces this friction. Addressing the body itself, the speaker is maintained as part of the being, allowing the entire conflict to exist internally. Such a method, supported by the colloquial diction characteristic of the directness of thought and enhanced by the use of short lines, permits the body to act as the result of this struggle; when reason is unable to overcome emotion, the body cannot get out of bed. Also, as both reason and emotion and the conscious and unconscious are contained within the same being, reason and the conscious are allowed a much more intimate knowledge of the difficulties facing the unconscious. Thus, when reason endeavors to explain these difficulties, it is able to do so accurately and at the deepest level.
The first stanza of the poem introduces the body to morning—first light, first sound, and first emotion. The poet’s use of visual and auditory imagery creates a feeling of tranquillity:
Morning light sifts through the window,
there is birdsong (3–4)
The light seems to move slowly, as indicated by the verb “sifts” (3). In addition, the repetition of ‘i’ sounds and the use of several stressed syllables slows the pace of the line when spoken. Combined with the sounds of birdsong in line 3, traditionally considered calming and peaceful, the emotion connected to this image sharply contrasts that of the first emotion experienced by the body:
You wake up filled with dread.
There seems no reason for it. (1–2)
The body awakes fearful and uncertain, a feeling reinforced by the repetition of ‘s’ sounds within the second line. Again, the struggle between the conscious and unconscious becomes apparent: although the conscious mind is aware of the tranquillity of the body’s surroundings, the dread and uncertainty of the unconscious prevails, and, as a result, the body cannot get out of bed. Thus, both the body and mind are trapped.
The second stanza of the poem relates a description of the ‘prison’ which holds the being. The “bed” (5), connected to the emotions of the unconscious by the rhyme with “dread” in the first stanza (1), becomes the physical manifestation of the mental prison and seems to be the force preventing the body from rising:
It’s something about the crumpled sheets
hanging over the edge like jungle
foliage (6–8)
The sheets serve as a barrier to getting up, just as the foliage serves as a barrier to the explorer in the jungle. These two images, linked together by the slant rhyme in “edge” (7) and “foliage” (8), illustrate the friction between reason and emotion once again, as reason uses the bed as a concrete image in an attempt to understand the inhibitions of emotion.
This attempt is further demonstrated through the remaining lines of the second stanza. Reason interprets the emotion of uncertainty, the “something” mentioned in line 6, into the images of the “unseen breakfast” (10) and the darkness of the “gaping” terry slippers (8). The unconscious is fearful of what lies beyond the bed, its vision perhaps precluded by the crumpled sheets acting a jungle foliage. In addition, the body is unable to see into the darkness or into the refrigerator, nor is it willing to leave the safety of the bed to investigate:
. . . the unseen breakfast—some of it
in the refrigerator you do not dare
to open—you do not dare to eat. (10–12)
Thus, while the conscious mind interprets the bed as a kind of prison, the unconscious interprets it as a safe haven, again introducing conflict.
Additionally, Atwood’s use of sound and meter in the second stanza serves to give its images a certain air. While words like “dark” and “pink” (9), linked together by the ‘k’ sound, give a feeling of mystery, the repetition of ‘s’ sounds in “sheets,” “slippers,” and “unseen breakfast” links the three images together under the tone of uncertainty. Furthermore, the strong use of harsh consonants demonstrates the unsympathetic feeling of the images as a whole. Similarly, the meter, now infused with trochees and amphibrachs, becomes much less upbeat compared to the first stanza, almost completely iambic. Together, the sound and meter almost repeat the emotions connected to the unconscious within the structure of the lines.
The third stanza finds reason and the conscious trying to determine the true, non-physical restraints of the unconscious. In this stanza, time becomes the central force of uncertainty, the controlling concept. The future, for instance, brings about this uncertainty in tremendous proportions:
What prevents you? The future. The future tense,
immense as outer space.
You could get lost there. (13–15)
The future exists in such a size that the body almost feels helpless in so great an unknown. Thus, the rhyme between “tense” (13) and “immense” (14) most definitely links the future to uncertainty. However, this same rhyme also links time to space—time, the controlling factor, is linked to the bed, space, just as reason and conscious thought link the two together within the poem.
But the past, too, restrains the body. While the future may prevent the body’s escape with uncertainty, the past physically seems to press upon it, a feeling enhanced by the heavy ‘ow’ sounds in “drowned” and “down” (17) combined with the long, drawn out ‘l’ sounds of “like” and “gelatin” (18) and “filling” and “lungs” (19) which increase the feeling of weight:
. . . The past, it’s destiny
and drowned events pressing you down,
like sea water, like gelatin
filling your lungs instead of air. (16–19)
In addition, the meter, still heavy with trochees on words like “nothing” (16), “pressing” (17), and “filling” (19), adds even more weight. Yet it is the imagery itself which presses on the body most.
In this passage, the “drowned events” are central to the understanding of what restraints the past commands upon the body (17). The past is able to press upon the body because the forces of the conscious trying to “drown” or, in other words, forget about these events are overwhelmed by the emotion related to them. Thus, the conscious cannot dismiss the feelings of the unconscious, and so the “drowned events” drown the body “like sea water, like gelatin / filling [its] lungs instead of air” (18–19). Even the construction of the similes presents conflict, for while the past, with “its destiny and drowned events,” is an abstraction, its described force, weight, and actions almost alter it into a concrete tactile image (16–17). Thus, both the uncertainty of the future and the events of the past prevent the unconscious from allowing the body to escape in either direction: “No. Nothing so simple” (16).
Then, reason finally seeks to truly overcome emotion—the conscious strives to overpower the unconscious. “Forget that and let’s get up” states the speaker in the fourth stanza, for if the body cannot escape its unconscious inhibitions, reason decides it must attempt to dismiss them (20). So, the speaker, reason and conscious thought, tries both small and large steps to reach its goal:
Try moving your arm.
Try moving your head.
Pretend the house is on fire
and you must run or burn. (22–24)
First, reason commands only one body part at a time to move—the arm and then the head—in straightforward steps. This simplicity, while supported by the repetition of both the meter and phrase structure, seems almost too simple to work against the complex fears and emotions of the unconscious. On the other hand, the second option the conscious presents seems too extreme: instead of moving step by step, the speaker attempts to trick the entire body into moving at once, while underneath, the common ‘r’ and ‘n’ in sounds “run” and “burn” (24) link the action to the result. And so, neither effort actually addresses the concerns of the unconscious, but instead both try to avoid them all together. In fact, the second attempt even endeavors to fool the unconscious.
Thus, the outcome is not surprising—neither effort overcomes the restraints of emotion, and so the body is once again unable to rise:
No, that one’s useless.
It’s never worked before. (25–26)
Still, these two lines serve to convey more than just reason’s failings. Line 26 indicates that this problem with rising has occurred previously and that the same methods have been tried to suppress and escape it. At the same time, the lines may express the speaker’s view on existence in general; perhaps life too is useless and futile.
Moreover, just as reason tries but then fails, the tone of the fourth stanza rises and then falls. In the first five lines, the meter remains mostly iambic and upbeat in keeping with the mood attached to the effort reason puts in to achieve its goal. In the sixth line of the stanza, however, as reason grasps that it has failed, the meter changes sharply to one long syllable followed by two trochees, indicative of the weight and sadness carried by the line. In addition, the repetition of ‘r’ sounds in “never worked before” almost communicates a feeling of anger, perhaps reason’s own anger towards its failings (26).
In the fifth and sixth stanzas, the poet uses a variety of auditory images to illustrate the speaker’s search for the actual source of the forces preventing the body from rising. The first of these, the “echo,” serves to indicate the difficulty associated with this task, for just as the origin of the reverberating sounds of an echo cannot easily be identified, the exact root of the problems facing the unconscious evades the speaker (27)—while reason and the conscious may understand that the problem stems from the uncertainty of the future and the events of the past, neither can determine why the body and unconscious, in fact, fear these things:
Where is it coming from, this echo,
this huge No that surrounds you (27–28)
Thus, “this huge No,” another auditory image, seems to become tangible enough to physically surround and forcefully restrict the body (28), just as the “drowned events” of the past are able to press down upon it.
Yet Atwood’s use of the “echo” (27) and the “huge No” (28) presents a paradox—while both are auditory images, they are described in these lines as being inaudible:
silent as the folds of the yellow
curtains, mute as the cheerful
Mexican bowl with its cargo
of mummified flowers? (29–32)
Perhaps then, the “echo” (27) and “huge No” (28) can exist both audibly and inaudibly—within the mind, the concerns of the unconscious resound loudly, but outside the body, nothing can be heard. In this way, Atwood reiterates the internal nature of the conflict.
The structure of the two similes is equally interesting, especially the stanza break Atwood inserts between “cheerful” (30) and “Mexican” (31). When spoken, this break forces the reader to pause slightly between these two words although the pause occurs in the middle of a phrase. This pause almost suggests that the bowl, perhaps symbolic of the way in which reason tries to conceal emotion, is not truly cheerful, or at least that the speaker must pause to question the accuracy of this description. In addition, the use of “mummified” to describe the flowers again indicates that something is being hidden or wrapped up (32). So, while the imagery may be colorful and cheerful externally, the structure of the similes indicates that perhaps the opposite is true internally.
The parenthetical in the sixth stanza illustrates a similar point. The contrast presented between “the colours of the sun” (35) and “the dried neutrals of shadow” (36) parallels the conflict between reason and emotion. Here, reason’s efforts to conceal emotion prove unable to mask the troubles facing the unconscious:
(You chose the colours of the sun,
not the dried neutrals of shadow.
God knows you’ve tried.) (33–35)
The conscious mind attempts to cover up these troubles, “the dried neutrals of shadow” (24), with “the colours of the sun” (23)—perhaps happy memories or cheerful thoughts. The shadows, then, become symbolic of the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future, for uncertainty lurks in shadows.
However, the last line of the sixth stanza indicates that the speaker’s attempts at concealing these emotions have failed. Since the sun creates shadow, Atwood’s use of these symbols implies that reason can never overcome emotion, not by hiding it or by suppressing it or even by avoiding it—the body still cannot leave the bed no matter what the conscious intends. “God knows you’ve tried” says reason as if it has given up, for it has tried everything, yet finds it has defeated nothing (35).
The final stanza turns to the reader to resolve the conflict between reason and emotion and the conscious and unconscious if it can be resolved at all. By setting up the final scenario, which occurs both at the end of the poem and at the end of the body’s life, Atwood forces the reader to stop and ponder the question presented in order to give closure to both:
Now here’s a good one:
you’re lying on your deathbed.
You have one hour to live.
Who is it, exactly, you have needed
all these years to forgive? (36–40)
Thus, while the question presented still applies to the body, the “you” addressed by the speaker now seems to apply more to the reader than to any figure in the poem. This change, then, since the poem gives no answer to the question, impels the reader to look again at the poem, this time focusing on how its message relates to his own life.
However, before the reader is able to do so, he must first understand the exact nature of the scenario. In this final stanza, the only image present reintroduces the bed into the poem, but this time as a deathbed. “You have one hour to live” states the speaker (38), indicating the tremendous importance of resolving whatever conflict may exist as the body tries to reconcile its life, now in its final moments. Then, the speaker poses the final question: “Who is it, exactly, you have needed / all these years to forgive?” (39–40).
Yet, Atwood leaves some ambiguity even in this last line, for the phrase “all these years” can be read in two ways. The reader must decide whether the body has needed this much time to forgive the unknown person or whether it has needed to forgive the person for this much time. Additionally, the reader must determine the identity this individual, whether an actual being from the body’s past or perhaps the body itself. This ambiguity, however, seems intentional, perhaps due to Atwood’s desire to leave the poem personally connected to each reader and open for interpretation, an idea which seems central to the structure of the last stanza. In all, the poem never actually resolves the conflict between reason and emotion and the conscious and unconscious within its lines, but instead draws in the reader to settle the situation based on his own experiences.
Margaret Atwood’s “Up” in the end leaves the reader with an uneasy feeling. While Atwood titles her work “Up,” many of the ideas conveyed are quite the opposite. The conflict which exists within the poem, rising from the tension between reason and emotion and the conscious and unconscious, is never entirely resolved. In fact, reason’s struggles throughout the piece prove fruitless at its conclusion. Such an unsettling conclusion does manage to illustrate the power of emotion over reason while involving the reader and his own thoughts. Perhaps then, if reason cannot overcome emotion, reason does not and should not reign supreme.
"Up"--Margaret Atwood
You wake up filled with dread.
There seems no reason for it.
Morning light sifts through the window,
there is birdsong,
you can't get out of bed.
It's something about the crumpled sheets
hanging over the edge like jungle
foliage, the terry slippers gaping
their dark pink mouths for your feet,
the unseen breakfast--some of it
in the refrigerator you do not dare
to open--you do not dare to eat.
What prevents you? The future. The future tense,
immense as outer space.
You could get lost there.
No. Nothing so simple. The past, its destiny
and drowned events pressing you down,
like sea water, like gelatin
filling your lungs instead of air.
Forget that and let's get up.
Try moving your arm.
Try moving your head.
Pretend the house is on fire
and you must run or burn.
No, that one's useless.
It's never worked before.
Where is it coming from, this echo,
this huge No that surrounds you,
silent as the folds of the yellow
curtains, mute as the cheerful
Mexican bowl with its cargo
of mummified flowers?
(You chose the colours of the sun,
not the dried neutrals of shadow.
God knows youÕve tried.)
Now here's a good one:
You're lying on your deathbed.
You have one hour to live.
Who is it, exactly, you have needed
all these years to forgive?