By Cynthia Zarin
This beautiful prose debut from prize-winning poet Cynthia Zarin is a poignant exploration of the author’s reports with love, paintings, and the shock of time’s passage.
Zarin charts the moving and complex parameters of up to date lifestyles and relations in writing that feels approximately fictional in its richness of scene, discussion, and temper. the author herself is the marvelously rueful personality on the heart of those stories, in the beginning a bewildered younger girl navigating the terrain of latest jobs and borrowed residences in a long-vanished ny urban. via the top, even if describing a newlywed trip to Italy, a child’s life-threatening disease, Mary McCarthy’s dossier cupboard, or the internal lifetime of the New Yorker employees, this background of the center indicates us how power the prior is in returning to us with totally new lessons.
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Additional resources for An enlarged heart : a personal history
At that time the cost of heating was astronomical, and we kept the house to which we had moved so cold that the tiny stars of snowflakes on her coat stayed frozen. She told me that a month after moving into the apartment she had discovered that her husband was having an affair with a younger woman. Now less than a year later, they were divorced. When I first met this woman, whom I will call Joan, I felt I already knew her, because she so reminded me of the mother of a boy I had once loved. She had her long, wide, flat bones and straight brown hair that fell in a comma over her forehead.
Before the owners, who had lived in the apartment only three years, had taken possession, the apartment had been lived in for forty years by three deaf sisters, and above each door was a light bell, which flashed if the doorbell rang. The owners had punched a hole from the kitchen into the living room, so that, standing in the kitchen, you could see the view, but the work had not been finished and little mounds of crumpled wallboard had settled on the counter. In order to punch this hole, they had destroyed the original kitchen cabinetry and put up plank shelving to replace it.
She came back only once, one rainy afternoon, when she turned up with the man she was going to marry. Screeching, she excoriated me for a stain on her pink satin comforter, a chip on her Indonesian table, and the loss—she counted them—of three spoons. In the end, she left everything behind as worthless, the implication being that I had contaminated her belongings. Just last week, planting marigolds in a pottery jar, in the backyard of the house where we live now, while a few feet away my youngest daughter added on to the hut she was building for her worms with a piece of broken brick, I realized the planter had been Adela’s.
An enlarged heart : a personal history by Cynthia Zarin