By Elizabeth McCracken
From Publishers Weekly Starred evaluation. McCracken tells her personal tale during this touching and sometimes all at once humorous memoir approximately her lifestyles sooner than and after wasting her first baby within the 9th month of being pregnant. As tough because it should have been to learn aloud, McCrackens supply is fearless and not self-pitying. McCracken is forthright concerning the tragedy, telling the listener early on child dies during this e-book, yet that one other one is born. McCrackens studying is mesmerizing and deeply relocating, as though she is touching on this intimate trip on to each one listener separately from a dismal, candle-lit room, in an unforgettable functionality. *A Little, Brown hardcover (reviewed online). (Sept.)* Copyright © Reed company details, a department of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Bookmarks journal In Elizabeth McCracken’s heartrending memoir—a love letter to the kid she misplaced and the dedicated husband who suffered along her—McCracken monitors her many skills. Her heat, candor, crystalline prose, gorgeous imagery, and a focus to element deliver her painful tale to existence. McCracken’s darkish humorousness ensnares unwitting readers, belying the disappointment with which she writes, and he or she indicates little or no endurance for self-pity and sentimentality. Critics praised her clear-eyed account in a style replete with syrupy, self-aggrandizing books, although a few expressed doubts that its material may have broad charm. “I’m no longer prepared for my first baby to vanish into history,” explains McCracken. With this heartbreaking account of his existence, there’s little probability of that. Copyright 2008 Bookmarks Publishing LLC
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Additional resources for An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination
Three of us was the goal, and eventually the mostly foregone conclusion both times. But any photograph would clearly show: there were still only two of us. For the rest of my life, I think, plurals will confuse me. How many children do I have? How many are there of me? I’m lying when I say I didn’t get much writing done when I was pregnant with Pudding. True enough for a while. Most days I woke up and had breakfast and then took another nap and then watched some television. Savary had English satellite TV, and I became addicted to the gentle afternoon reality programs of the BBC, all auctions and car boot sales.
Don’t go outside. Don’t leave your house. Stroke your stomach, fine, but only in your own living room. Keep your lullabies to yourself. ” That lovely former student sent a horrified apology when she found out what had happened, but of course I understood. That is one of the strangest side effects of the whole story. I am that thing worse than a cautionary tale: I am a horror story, an example of something terrible going wrong when you least expect it, and for no good reason, a story to be kept from pregnant women, a story so grim and lessonless it’s better not to think about at all.
Black. Pig. Me, friend, boom boom. ” Lola spoke to him in Greek. She was fluent but had such a thick cockney accent that I swore I was always about to understand her — it sounded as though she were saying, “Acropolis Demetrius where to, Guvnor? ” The dining room at the presbytery was long and rectangular, filled mostly with a long rectangular table. Everyone smoked. Everyone drank. Even Finn, the two-year-old, a sweet and goofy kid who spoke, as far as I could tell, Esperanto, drank: he had to be stopped from emptying the dregs of beer bottles left on the table.
An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination by Elizabeth McCracken