She thought it was her fault, for allowing her greedy gaze to wander. Her stepfather was bullying, judgmental, condescending; anything Mantel did seemed to anger him. As a young woman, she started to get headaches, vision problems, pains that coursed through her body, bleeding that no longer confined itself to that time of the month. The doctors told her she was insane. Years of misdiagnoses culminated in the removal of her reproductive organs, barnacled by scar tissue caused by endometriosis.
Her body changed from very thin to very fat. I used to think that autobiography was a form of weakness, and perhaps I still do. Harry Crews grew up in southern Georgia, not far from the Okefenokee Swamp. His father, a tenant farmer, died of a heart attack before Crews was 2.
Dance for Your Daddy: The True Story of a Brutal East End Childhood
His stepfather was a violent drunk. When Crews was 5, he fell into a boiler of water that was being used to scald pigs. He was told, incorrectly, that he would never walk again. Crews sought solace in the Sears, Roebuck catalog, the only book in his house besides the Bible. He began his career as a writer by making up stories about the people he saw there. His father was from Kenya; his mother from Kansas. Obama himself was born in Hawaii, lived in Indonesia for a time, and was largely raised by his mother and maternal grandparents, after his father left for Harvard when Obama was 2.
This is a book about the uses of disenchantment; the revelations are all the more astonishing for being modest and hard-won. He never stopped. In this book, Roth offers a moving tribute to the man but also a portrait almost breathtaking in its honesty and lack of sentimentalism, so truthful and exact that it is as much a portrait of living as dying, son as father. Someone suggested he speak with Shaw, whose real name was Ned Cobb.
Reading it, you will learn more about wheat, guano, farm implements, bugs, cattle killing and mule handling than you would think possible. This is also a dense catalog of the ways that whites tricked and mistreated blacks in the first half of the 20th century. You begin this memoir thinking it will be about one thing, and it turns into something else altogether — a book at once more ordinary and more extraordinary than any first impressions might allow. His sentences are clean, never showy; he writes about himself through others in a way that feels both necessarily generous and candidly — which is to say appropriately — narcissistic.
The only child of European Jews who settled in the Promised Land, Oz grew up alongside the new state of Israel, initially enamored of a fierce nationalism before becoming furiously and in one memorable scene, rather hilariously disillusioned.
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As a lonely boy, Oz felt unseen by his awkward father and confounded by his brilliant and deeply unhappy mother. She taught him that people were a constant source of betrayal and disappointment. Books, though, would never let him down.
Hearing about what happened to those Jews who stayed in Europe, the young Oz wanted to become a book, because no matter how many books were destroyed there was a decent chance that one copy could survive. Oz says he essentially killed his father by moving to a kibbutz at 15 and changing his name. Divorced mother and son had hit the road together, fleeing a bad man, trying to change their luck and maybe get rich as uranium prospectors.
Wolff became wild in high school, a delinquent and a petty thief, before escaping to a prep school in Pennsylvania. His prose lights up the experience of growing up in America during this era. Rachel Cusk writes about new motherhood with an honesty and clarity that makes this memoir feel almost illicit. Sleepless nights, yes; colic, yes; but also a raw, frantic love for her firstborn daughter that she depicts and dissects with both rigor and amazement.
The childless writer who could compartmentalize with ease and take boundaries for granted has to learn an entirely new way of being. None of the chipper, treacly stuff here; motherhood deserves more respect than that. The Nobel Prize-winning J. Coetzee, in other words, is taciturn in the extreme. Out in the world, he lived in constant fear of violence and humiliation; at home he was cosseted by his mother and presided like a king.
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The memoir is told in the third-person present tense, which lends it a peculiar immediacy. Coetzee is free to observe the boy he once was without the interpretive intrusions that come with age; he can remain true to what he felt then, rather than what he knows now. We are carried from her childhood, in the lap of a family militantly opposed to conformity, to her long career as a reporter in England and Egypt. It is thrilling to watch her arrive at an understanding of a sense of self and language that is her own, bespoke.
I did not query my condition, or seek reasons for it. I knew very well that it was an irrational conviction — I was in no way psychotic, and perhaps not much more neurotic than most of us; but there it was, I knew it to be true, and if it was impossible then the definition of possibility was inadequate. Sonali Deraniyagala was searching the internet for ways to kill herself when one click led to another and she was staring at a news article featuring pictures of her two young sons. She herself survived by clinging to a branch. She recalls stabbing herself with a butter knife.
Reading this book is like staring into the abyss, only instead of staring back it might just swallow you whole. Her return to life was gradual, tentative and difficult; she learned the only way out of her unbearable anguish was to remember what had happened and to keep it close. Over there, cabdrivers know who James is: the ebullient man who hosted many comic and erudite television programs over the years. James is the author of five memoirs, to which many readers have a cultlike devotion.
This autobiography is a disguised novel. He was born in and grew up with an absent father, a Japanese prisoner of war. Released, his father died in a plane crash on his way home when James was 5. He is never less than good company.
I—THE LAST TO SEE THEM ALIVE
Eighner spent three years on the streets mostly in Austin, Tex. The book he wrote is a literate and exceedingly humane document. On the streets, he clung to a kind of dignity. He refused to beg or steal. Day after day I could aspire, within reason, to nothing more than survival. In addition to the estimated delivery date range, on the product page you will find how long an item will take to be dispatched. Order ships directly from our supplier. Please Note: Deliveries of items with this status cannot be tracked.
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Dance for your Daddy eBook by Katherine Shellduck - | Rakuten Kobo
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