The way I write is who I am, or have become, yet this is a case in which I wish I had instead of words and their rhythms a cutting room, equipped with an Avid, a digital editing system on which I could touch a key and collapse the sequence of time, show you simultaneously all the frames of memory that come to me now, let you pick the takes, the marginally different expressions, the variant readings of the same lines.
© BookBrowse LLC 1997-2020. In the midst of life we are in death, Episcopalians say at the graveside. Excerpt The Year of Magical Thinking. Life changes in the instant. The details will be different, but it will happen to you. The question of self-pity. "He was on his way home from workhappy, successful, healthyand then, gone," I read in the account of a psychiatric nurse whose husband was killed in a highway accident.
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Reader Reviews, In this haunting parable of the American West, a young woman faces the violent past of her remote Montana valley. Search String: Summary |
Life changes in the instant.The ordinary instant.
Later I realized that I must have repeated the details of what happened to everyone who came to the house in those first weeks, all those friends and relatives who brought food and made drinks and laid out plates on the dining room table for however many people were around at lunch or dinner time, all those who picked up the plates and froze the leftovers and ran the dishwasher and filled our (I could not yet think my) otherwise empty house even after I had gone into the bedroom (our bedroom, the one in which there still lay on a sofa a faded terrycloth XL robe bought in the 1970s at Richard Carroll in Beverly Hills) and shut the door. I have been a writer my entire life. Later I realized that I must have repeated the details of what happened to everyone who came to the house in those first weeks, all those friends and relatives who brought food and made drinks and laid out plates on the dining room table for however many people were around at lunch or dinner time, all those who picked up the plates and froze the leftovers and ran the dishwasher and filled our (I could not yet think my) otherwise empty house even after I had gone into the bedroom (our bedroom, the one in which there still lay on a sofa a faded terrycloth XL robe bought in the 1970s at Richard Carroll in Beverly Hills) and shut the door. The ordinary instant. "It was just an ordinary beautiful September day," people still say when asked to describe the morning in New York when American Airlines 11 and United Airlines 175 got flown into the World Trade towers.
Clearly I was not the ideal teller of this story, something about my version had been at once too offhand and too elliptical, something in my tone had failed to convey the central fact in the situation (I would encounter the same failure later when I had to tell Quintana), but by the time José saw the blood he understood.I had picked up the abandoned syringes and ECG electrodes before he came in that morning but I could not face the blood.In outline.It is now, as I begin to write this, the afternoon of October 4, 2004.Nine months and five days ago, at approximately nine o’clock on the evening of December 30, 2003, my husband, John Gregory Dunne, appeared to (or did) experience, at the table where he and I had just sat down to dinner in the living room of our apartment in New York, a sudden massive coronary event that caused his death. “Achingly beautiful. At one point I considered the possibility that they had picked up the details of the story from one another, but immediately rejected it: the story they had was in each instance too accurate to have been passed from hand to hand. Those were the first words I wrote after it happened. "It was just an ordinary beautiful September
It was in fact the ordinary nature of everything preceding the event that prevented me from truly believing it had happened, absorbing it, incorporating it, getting past it. Spam Free: Your email is never shared with anyone; opt out any time. Information at BookBrowse.com is published with the permission of the copyright holder or their agent. "ordinary," because there would be no forgetting it: the word never left my mind. It had come from me. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends. I have no memory of telling anyone the details, but I must have done so, because everyone seemed to know them. 1
As we will one day not be at all.”. 1. When I first told him what had happened he had not understood. This is my attempt to make sense of the period that followed, weeks and then months that cut loose any fixed idea I had ever had about death, about illness, about probability and luck, about good fortune and bad, about marriage and children and memory, about grief, about the ways in which people do and do not deal with the fact that life ends, about the shallowness of sanity, about life itself. I have no memory of telling anyone the details, but I must have done so, because everyone seemed to know them. “He was on his way home from work—happy, successful, healthy—and then, gone,” I read in the account of a psychiatric nurse whose husband was killed in a highway accident. José was crying that morning as he cleaned up the blood. Even the report of the 9/11 Commission opened on this insistently premonitory and yet still dumbstruck narrative note: "Tuesday, September 11, 2001, dawned temperate and nearly cloudless in the eastern United States.". The way I write is who I am, or have become, yet this is a case in which I wish I had instead of words and their rhythms a cutting room, equipped with an Avid, a digital editing system on which I could touch a key and collapse the sequence of time, show you simultaneously all the frames of memory that come to me now, let you pick the takes, the marginally different expressions, the variant readings of the same lines.
At some point, in the interest of remembering what seemed most striking about what had happened, I considered adding those words,
Those moments when I was abruptly overtaken by exhaustion are what I remember most clearly about the first days and weeks. Reviews |
This is a case in which I need whatever it is I think or believe to be penetrable, if only for myself.
Life changes fast. This is a case in which I need whatever it is I think or believe to be penetrable, if only for myself. The Year of Magical Thinking About Reviews Quotes Excerpt From one of America’s iconic writers, a stunning book of electric honesty and passion. Those were the first words I wrote after it happened. I had made no changes to that file since I wrote the words, in January 2004, a day or two or three after the fact.For a long time I wrote nothing else.Life changes in the instant.The ordinary instant.At some point, in the interest of remembering what seemed most striking about what had happened, I considered adding those words, “the ordinary instant.” I saw immediately that there would be no need to add the word “ordinary,” because there would be no forgetting it: the word never left my mind. "And thengone." I recognize now that there was nothing unusual in this: confronted with sudden disaster we all focus on how unremarkable the circumstances were in which the unthinkable occurred, the clear blue sky from which the plane fell, the routine errand that ended on the shoulder with the car in flames, the swings where the children were playing as usual when the rattlesnake struck from the ivy.
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