By Elizabeth McCracken
From Publishers Weekly Starred overview. McCracken tells her personal tale during this touching and infrequently unexpectedly humorous memoir approximately her existence sooner than and after wasting her first baby within the 9th month of being pregnant. As tricky because it should have been to learn aloud, McCrackens supply is brave and not self-pitying. McCracken is forthright in regards to the tragedy, telling the listener early on child dies during this e-book, yet that one other one is born. McCrackens analyzing is captivating and deeply relocating, as though she is referring to this intimate trip on to each one listener separately from a depressing, candle-lit room, in an unforgettable functionality. *A Little, Brown hardcover (reviewed online). (Sept.)* Copyright © Reed enterprise info, 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 committed husband who suffered along her—McCracken monitors her many skills. Her heat, candor, crystalline prose, attractive imagery, and a focus to aspect deliver her painful tale to lifestyles. McCracken’s darkish humorousness ensnares unwitting readers, belying the unhappiness with which she writes, and she or he exhibits little or no persistence for self-pity and sentimentality. Critics praised her clear-eyed account in a style replete with syrupy, self-aggrandizing books, even though a few expressed doubts that its material may have extensive allure. “I’m no longer prepared for my first baby to vanish into history,” explains McCracken. With this heartbreaking account of his lifestyles, there’s little likelihood of that. Copyright 2008 Bookmarks Publishing LLC
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Extra resources for An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination
I was two months pregnant when we moved to Savary. We’d spent the nine months before that in Paris. For three years we’d split our time between Iowa, where we taught and earned money, and Europe, where we wrote and spent it: Paris twice, Ireland, Berlin, Denmark. ” We didn’t own a house, a car, not even a sofa. We spent our money on souvenir busts and cheap red wine. Savary was one more adventure. Yes, the house was dark, but it was agreeably hilarious. “We’re living in an unwed mothers’ home,” I told my friends.
Our second morning, we decided to walk through a flea market in a nearby park just to look at something different. All spring we’d gone to French flea markets, driving hours to look at piles of junk, or preposterously priced Louis XVI armoires, or glorious 1930s French bookends. Over the months we’d bought a handsome old clock and a sign advertising oysters, a pair of vases made of WWII artillery shells and a lampshade hand-painted with sea serpents of the here-be-dragons variety. We’d even been to this very flea market the week before, after an appointment with an anesthesiologist.
But mostly I just missed my own child. About a week after Pudding’s death I got in my e-mail box a photograph of the newborn son of a very lovely woman who’d been a student of mine at Iowa. She’d known I was pregnant, but her friends had very wisely kept silent about what had happened, so as not to terrify her, and therefore her husband didn’t know he shouldn’t send me a photograph of a newborn baby boy. A few weeks later, and it would have been fine: by then, when friends reported that someone I knew had had a baby, they usually added, “I didn’t know whether to tell you or not, but I figure .