By Elizabeth McCracken
"This is the happiest tale on the planet with the saddest ending," writes Elizabeth McCracken in her strong, inspiring memoir. A prize-winning, profitable novelist in her 30s, McCracken used to be chuffed to be an itinerant author and self-proclaimed spinster. yet all at once she fell in love, received married, and years in the past was once residing in a distant a part of France, engaged on her novel, and watching for the start of her first child.This publication is set what occurred subsequent. In her 9th month of being pregnant, she realized that her child boy had died. How do you take care of and get over this sort of loss? after all you don't--but you cross on. And in case you have ever skilled loss or love a person who has, the corporate of this amazing e-book might help you cross on.With humor and heat and unfailing generosity, McCracken considers the character of affection and grief. She opens her center and leaves all of ours the richer for it.
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Extra info for An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination: A Memoir
In the middle of the southwest of the country. In an area called Aquitaine. In a department called Lot-et-Garonne. Forty-five minutes southwest of Cyrano’s Bergerac. Forty minutes east of the tower where Montaigne wrote for the last years of his life. Our address was in the village of Baleyssagues, but the closest place to buy bread and wine and cheese was Duras: three bakeries, a post office, two bars, two pharmacies; Marguerite Duras took her pen name from the town, which is where her father was buried (though not where her own first child, a son, was stillborn in 1942).
And so I just never went back. (I’ve always thought I was five feet even, but at my six-week postpartum checkup, the nurse announced, much to my surprise, that I was five one. ) Of course it occurs to me that Pudding might have lived if I’d stuck with either Dr. Bergerac or Dr. Baltimore. It’s a low-decibel wistfulness; I can barely hear it over the roar of later, louder regrets. This kind is not so bad, the If I Did One Thing Differently, Then Maybe Everything Would Also Be Different sort, a vague, philosophical itch: yes, if life were different, then life would be different.
It creeps toward that time, the end of April 2006, a child warned away from dangers and therefore obsessed by them. Help me. We need to grab it by the scruff of the neck: not yet. Not yet. It was Maud who told me the story of that tragic drunk woman, and Maud who put me off the close by hospital in Marmande: her son, Finn, was born there black-and-blue from a hard delivery. Maud, who our landlady paid to look after Savary, was our social life, along with her Anglo-Irish boyfriend, known at the bar where they drank as Jack the Irish Two — there were so many Jack the Irishes that they needed to be numbered.