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Cargando... The Room Lit by Roses: A Journal of Pregnancy and Birthpor Carole Maso
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From one of our most daring writers comes this intimate and seductive book: a working journal of pregnancy that was both a Lambda Literary Awards finalist and a Village Voice pick for Best Books of 2000. Maso chronicles with great tenderness and awe the months of her pregnancy, from its charmed conception through the auspicious arrival of Rose. No se han encontrado descripciones de biblioteca. |
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Google Books — Cargando... GénerosSistema Decimal Melvil (DDC)813.54Literature English (North America) American fiction 20th Century 1945-1999Clasificación de la Biblioteca del CongresoValoraciónPromedio:
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One of the primary tensions she highlights is writing vs. mothering ("Already I have had moments of genuine mourning for my old life"). She's very concerned that she won't be able to continue her creative life. In this the book is similar to others like Sarah Manguso's Ongoingness, but Maso's book touched me far more deeply.
Negatives for some readers might be a) The vagueness of her disclosures - this isn't a tell-all diary or a frank description of her personal life. The focus really is on her feelings about pregnancy, and sometimes she leaves the reader with a lot of confusion about what actually may have happened. b) Sometimes the free-association can be slightly grating, at least to me ("I'm dreaming of France again").
These are very minor issues, though, and more of a description of her style than a criticism. For me, the high points were the description of the birth (stunningly gorgeous writing, and expressive of something I have found impossible to express) as well as the searing honesty of the aftermath.
A couple of my favorite passages:
"What was I thinking? To create a being who is going to suffer. To be responsible, utterly, for someone's death. A grave indictment. It was not a lark. Did I take this all too lightly? How else was I to take it and still go forward?"
"How was I to know that I was always just a shell? It keeps returning. How was I to know that I carried an emptiness so large, so wide inside me, like a child? Would the night devoid of stars realize it? Would the day without light? And that after those nine precious months I would become a shell again - only now to be so aware of it. How to know that the world would leave me this way forever - bereft." ( )