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cdmcc's review against another edition
2.0
Frustratingly, this didn't work at all for me. I guess the silver lining is that I realize how much skill it takes to write an effective memoir, but Spiegelman falls into the "and this happened, then this happened, and then this happened" trap without really reconciling these traumatic events.
stupennebaker's review against another edition
5.0
RIYL complicated families, Call My Agent, duolingo.
calamityjones's review against another edition
5.0
A marvelous page-turning memoir about memory and matriarchy. I loved this so, so much.
mlautchi's review against another edition
The things my mother did not see about herself, I did not see, either. (2)
But in Ussel, Sylvie found something she had been longing for. Mamie, lonely Mamie, smothered her granddaughter in unconditional love. She loved *big*, like this, Sylvie would say, arms stretched wide. (32)
I told this story so many times over the years that it ceased being a memory. On rare occasions, when speaking to a close friend, I could still feel the aftershocks of emotion. But most times I simply felt myself stepping through a series of empty images I had stepped through many times before. I could not turn my head left or right. I could not see the details I hadn't already told. Once, at a party, a girl said with delight, "Ooh, you're giving me shivers!" I felt the twisted pleasure of doing myself violence. (64)
I turned to grab the tin plates we always used for Chinese food, and she turned with me, reaching for the wineglasses, so that we moved with one movement, as if unfurling a tablecloth over all that was scratched. (82)
.. my mother pushed the heel of her palm up against her face. I felt our distance acutely, and it lanced my heart. I wished I could throw my arms around her, thought it was not clear to me if I wanted to comfort her or be comforted. (87)
The stories we use to create out sense of self-the stories we tell new lovers at five a.m. so that they can understand who we are-are also the ones which we have most heavily embroidered. They have been altered by the moods and the settings in which we told them. They have been altered by what we needed them to mean each time. (88)
I stirred the memories to the surface, and they changed as she told them to me. Bright threads of myself, embroidered upon her past. (90)
In the evenings, when the long summer sun stretched pink rays across the cobwebs and rusty handsaws ... (91)
I filled notebooks with intense peaks and valleys of emotion each time he smiled at me or didn't and tried not to let him see. It did not seem to occur to either of us to actually get to know each other. He told me about his childhood once or twice, only happy things. Mostly he told me about plots of movies I had not seen, acting out the parts. (96)
He continued to be ,my boyfriend, a miracle so monumental it never ceased to leave me dizzy. (96)
I was newly uncertain about all my deeply held convictions. Two years before, I had been making antismoking collages. Now I smoke on my way to school. Were all the things I had once thought taboo to be swept away, one by one? (96)
I had brought friends on family vacation ... before, their presence balancing the volatility of our nuclear four. (97)
"You could come after," I said. And I also said, though it makes me cringe to remember it, "If you came, you could bring condoms." (98)
I realized, as I looked at that still jarring gap in the air, that there was no going backward. Some of the things I had put down so hurriedly could never be picked up again. (98)
She felt an emptiness so deep she hadn't known it could exist. (105)
Françoise remained at home, but she made herself as invisible as possible. She came home late and shut herself in her room to study. (108)
I was angry with my father ... that was easy. But my mother? ... being angry would have meant believing she could change. (112)
"Facts are transformed by being recounted", she said. "They're turned into stories." (118)
But in Ussel, Sylvie found something she had been longing for. Mamie, lonely Mamie, smothered her granddaughter in unconditional love. She loved *big*, like this, Sylvie would say, arms stretched wide. (32)
I told this story so many times over the years that it ceased being a memory. On rare occasions, when speaking to a close friend, I could still feel the aftershocks of emotion. But most times I simply felt myself stepping through a series of empty images I had stepped through many times before. I could not turn my head left or right. I could not see the details I hadn't already told. Once, at a party, a girl said with delight, "Ooh, you're giving me shivers!" I felt the twisted pleasure of doing myself violence. (64)
I turned to grab the tin plates we always used for Chinese food, and she turned with me, reaching for the wineglasses, so that we moved with one movement, as if unfurling a tablecloth over all that was scratched. (82)
.. my mother pushed the heel of her palm up against her face. I felt our distance acutely, and it lanced my heart. I wished I could throw my arms around her, thought it was not clear to me if I wanted to comfort her or be comforted. (87)
The stories we use to create out sense of self-the stories we tell new lovers at five a.m. so that they can understand who we are-are also the ones which we have most heavily embroidered. They have been altered by the moods and the settings in which we told them. They have been altered by what we needed them to mean each time. (88)
I stirred the memories to the surface, and they changed as she told them to me. Bright threads of myself, embroidered upon her past. (90)
In the evenings, when the long summer sun stretched pink rays across the cobwebs and rusty handsaws ... (91)
I filled notebooks with intense peaks and valleys of emotion each time he smiled at me or didn't and tried not to let him see. It did not seem to occur to either of us to actually get to know each other. He told me about his childhood once or twice, only happy things. Mostly he told me about plots of movies I had not seen, acting out the parts. (96)
He continued to be ,my boyfriend, a miracle so monumental it never ceased to leave me dizzy. (96)
I was newly uncertain about all my deeply held convictions. Two years before, I had been making antismoking collages. Now I smoke on my way to school. Were all the things I had once thought taboo to be swept away, one by one? (96)
I had brought friends on family vacation ... before, their presence balancing the volatility of our nuclear four. (97)
"You could come after," I said. And I also said, though it makes me cringe to remember it, "If you came, you could bring condoms." (98)
I realized, as I looked at that still jarring gap in the air, that there was no going backward. Some of the things I had put down so hurriedly could never be picked up again. (98)
She felt an emptiness so deep she hadn't known it could exist. (105)
Françoise remained at home, but she made herself as invisible as possible. She came home late and shut herself in her room to study. (108)
I was angry with my father ... that was easy. But my mother? ... being angry would have meant believing she could change. (112)
"Facts are transformed by being recounted", she said. "They're turned into stories." (118)
leclerc's review against another edition
5.0
"perhaps i wasn't afraid of my own death, but of the loss of my youth. perhaps i wasn't afraid of my mother's death, but that i would be able to keep living without her."
before i get into my review, the quote above was one of the many that touched me the most while reading. it's something that i have stayed up and obsessing about for a few nights as well, and it was comforting to find one of my biggest fears written down.
this was actually the first memoir that i have ever read, so i don't have a lot to compare about how good it was or how i felt about it. all that i can say is that this felt so raw and real. as messy as some of these parts where, i think that it was an accurate portrayal of different generations of women.
in hopes of finding something relatable in this book, i picked it up, and i wasn't left disappointed. so many of the scenes reminded me of my own relationship with my mother. i felt seen. it also made me rethink of my feelings towards my mum, and since then i try to think more out of my mother's perspective.
5/5. i loved it.
before i get into my review, the quote above was one of the many that touched me the most while reading. it's something that i have stayed up and obsessing about for a few nights as well, and it was comforting to find one of my biggest fears written down.
this was actually the first memoir that i have ever read, so i don't have a lot to compare about how good it was or how i felt about it. all that i can say is that this felt so raw and real. as messy as some of these parts where, i think that it was an accurate portrayal of different generations of women.
in hopes of finding something relatable in this book, i picked it up, and i wasn't left disappointed. so many of the scenes reminded me of my own relationship with my mother. i felt seen. it also made me rethink of my feelings towards my mum, and since then i try to think more out of my mother's perspective.
5/5. i loved it.
caitlinalrogers's review against another edition
5.0
I loved this book. This story of the relationships between 5 generations of women across an ocean, through difficult times, and through happy times is truly incredible.
carolynaugustyn's review against another edition
3.0
Very interesting and well written but I found it to be a little too scattered for my tastes. I understand why the story jumps around so often (to include the three generations of daughters/mothers) but there were some moments where the story jumped to what seemed like unrelated moments. However, he mother-daughter dynamic was really well captured and offered an interesting look at interesting lives.
theconstantreader's review
4.0
I churned through this book when I first picked it up, finding Spiegelman's language basically intoxicating. Unfortunately though there came a point where I lost the rhythm, only to put it down and never really feel like I picked up where I left off when I continued reading. I'm really aware with this review that reading this book in two distinct chucks, 3/4 first and 1/4 a long time later might be affecting my review and I pained over whether to give it 3 or 4 stars but settled on 4 despite the so-so end, given how much I recall enjoying the beginning.
This is a sober memoir following 3 generations of what reads like unrequited love from daughter to mother up Spiegelman's matriarchal lineage. There are some really touching, heartfelt moments and the way Spiegelman records them is almost poetic.
All this digging in to her mother and grandmothers lives creates questions about the past and present and which alters which. Throughout the book she explores concepts around omission/inclusion and fact/fiction in terms of creating our realities and searching for the truth.
It was an interesting read and not a small feat. It also can't go without saying that Spiegelman showed some serious guts following through with this book with both her mother and grandmother still alive. Even if their relationships had been the most smooth and solid of all, writing about anyone like this, especially people that close to you, opens you up. I admire Spiegelman for that.
This is a sober memoir following 3 generations of what reads like unrequited love from daughter to mother up Spiegelman's matriarchal lineage. There are some really touching, heartfelt moments and the way Spiegelman records them is almost poetic.
All this digging in to her mother and grandmothers lives creates questions about the past and present and which alters which. Throughout the book she explores concepts around omission/inclusion and fact/fiction in terms of creating our realities and searching for the truth.
It was an interesting read and not a small feat. It also can't go without saying that Spiegelman showed some serious guts following through with this book with both her mother and grandmother still alive. Even if their relationships had been the most smooth and solid of all, writing about anyone like this, especially people that close to you, opens you up. I admire Spiegelman for that.
pixeltune's review against another edition
I rarely give star ratings to memoirs; I feel like it’s difficult to assign something like that to someone’s lived experience.
That being said, this was a wonderfully written memoir. It was illuminating in some ways and at times painfully relatable. The author seems okay with the fact that people just remember things differently, which is not something that I can relate to, especially when it comes to personal traumas. The author is extremely privileged which I think adds to that.
That being said, this was a wonderfully written memoir. It was illuminating in some ways and at times painfully relatable. The author seems okay with the fact that people just remember things differently, which is not something that I can relate to, especially when it comes to personal traumas. The author is extremely privileged which I think adds to that.