By Elizabeth McCracken
From Publishers Weekly Starred overview. McCracken tells her personal tale during this touching and sometimes without warning humorous memoir approximately her existence sooner than and after wasting her first baby within the 9th month of being pregnant. As tough because it should have been to learn aloud, McCrackens supply is brave and not self-pitying. McCracken is forthright concerning the tragedy, telling the listener early on child dies during this publication, yet that one other one is born. McCrackens studying is captivating and deeply relocating, as though she is concerning this intimate trip on to each one listener separately from a dismal, 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, gorgeous imagery, and a focus to aspect carry her painful tale to lifestyles. McCracken’s darkish humorousness ensnares unwitting readers, belying the disappointment with which she writes, and she or he exhibits 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 huge 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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Additional info for An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination
He was a person, that’s all. Edward came back from the privacy of the far reaches of the parking lot, still holding the cell phone. He wasn’t crying anymore, but he had been. I told him we had to name the baby for legal reasons. “We’ll call him Pudding,” he said, in one of those moments that sounds improbably sentimental to me now but at that moment was exactly right. A new name would be only a death name, another way to say that he hadn’t exactly existed before now. How could he suddenly be an Oscar or a Moses?
Maud’s father, who sometimes visited, was Jack the Irish Three. Jack and Maud lived ten minutes away from us in an old presbytery with Maud’s four-year-old daughter, Madeleine, and two-year-old Finn; a lovely lemonade yellow, lion-headed retriever; and a cat named, by Madeleine, Two-Dogs. Maud was in her late twenties, with messy boy-cut blond hair and a wicked sense of humor. Jack was about fifty, tall and thin and ponytailed: he looked like the bass player of some band that had been medium big in the 1970s.
That is one of the strangest side effects of the whole story. I am that thing worse than a cautionary tale: I am a horror story, an example of something terrible going wrong when you least expect it, and for no good reason, a story to be kept from pregnant women, a story so grim and lessonless it’s better not to think about at all. Where in France did we live? 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.
An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination by Elizabeth McCracken