By Elizabeth McCracken
From Publishers Weekly Starred assessment. McCracken tells her personal tale during this touching and sometimes all at once humorous memoir approximately her lifestyles prior to 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 ebook, yet that one other one is born. McCrackens analyzing is spell binding and deeply relocating, as though she is concerning this intimate trip on to every one listener separately from a gloomy, candle-lit room, in an unforgettable functionality. *A Little, Brown hardcover (reviewed online). (Sept.)* Copyright © Reed company 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 screens her many abilities. Her heat, candor, crystalline prose, stunning imagery, and a spotlight to aspect deliver her painful tale to existence. McCracken’s darkish humorousness ensnares unwitting readers, belying the disappointment with which she writes, and she or he 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, even though a few expressed doubts that its subject material might have large attraction. “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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Extra resources for An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination
Now it’s all miles away. Everything’s muddled together. At some point I imagined a kind of time — I don’t know whether I got this idea from science or science fiction, not being much interested in either — that split into two or more directions when the baby died: on one track he lived and we took him home and somewhere in the universe at this moment we have a one-year-old baby and a newborn and are ignorant, exhausted, cheery (or maybe only the first two); on the other track, the one I accidentally took, he died, and we left France.
The two sofas in the main living room weren’t very comfortable, but they were deep and difficult to get out of, or so I told myself. But when I was about eight months pregnant, I did something I’d never imagined doing: I started a memoir. Not only a memoir, but one in which I appeared frequently with my pants off. A memoir that would include the phrase my cervix, meaning mine, Elizabeth McCracken’s. What the hell: I couldn’t bend my attention to writing anything else, and I was eight months pregnant, past the danger point, so I thought, so I thought, and I began a funny book about being pregnant in France.
Preposterous! we thought. Who needed four times as many toilets as occupants? But the price was right, and we signed a lease that started in three months, and we went back to Paris. Two weeks later, I sent Edward out to negotiate a pregnancy test. All slightly medical transactions in French pharmacies require negotiation with the pharmacist. I took it, disbelieved it, sent him out for another, which agreed with the first. We didn’t call my occupant the Baby, which seemed inaccurate, cloying, and too optimistic.
An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination by Elizabeth McCracken