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sewfrench's review against another edition
5.0
So much to think about in such a small book.
“When I was a teenager in Boston, a man on the subway handed me a card printed with tiny pictures of hands spelling out the alphabet in sign language. I AM DEAF, said the card. You were supposed to give the man some money in exchange.
I have thought of that card ever since, during difficult times, mine or someone else's; surely when tragedy has struck you dumb, you should be given a stack of cards that explain it for you. When Pudding died, I wanted my stack. I still want it. My first child was stillborn, it would say on the front. It remains the hardest thing for me to explain, even now, or maybe I mean especially now - now that his death feels like a non sequitur. My first child was stillborn. I want people to know but I don't want to say it aloud. People don't like to hear it but I think they might not mind reading it on a card.”
― Elizabeth McCracken, An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination
“When I was a teenager in Boston, a man on the subway handed me a card printed with tiny pictures of hands spelling out the alphabet in sign language. I AM DEAF, said the card. You were supposed to give the man some money in exchange.
I have thought of that card ever since, during difficult times, mine or someone else's; surely when tragedy has struck you dumb, you should be given a stack of cards that explain it for you. When Pudding died, I wanted my stack. I still want it. My first child was stillborn, it would say on the front. It remains the hardest thing for me to explain, even now, or maybe I mean especially now - now that his death feels like a non sequitur. My first child was stillborn. I want people to know but I don't want to say it aloud. People don't like to hear it but I think they might not mind reading it on a card.”
― Elizabeth McCracken, An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination
daybreak1012's review against another edition
4.0
It's hard to know where to start reviewing a book like this. A memoir is someone's personal experience at life. Therefore, it isn't up to the reader to critique its content or have opinions on whether or not it was right or wrong in the unraveling of its "plot." I'm certain that the author would not have chosen this particular plot twist. The reader is merely choosing to be along for the ride -- a passenger to the pilot and navigator who has been tasked with this mission and has zero control over its trajectory.
What I liked about An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination:
An easy read despite the subject matter - There is no spoiler here. This book is the story of one mother's heartrending story which included the stillbirth of her first son. There was an honesty and a lightness to her words that captured both the inescapable heartache and the wish of a mother to be allowed to remember and share out loud the pleasures of what limited moments of joy she had with her child, even if that child had not yet entered the outside world. I am struggling to find the words that will express how...conversational the tone of this book was and that surprised me. Memoirs can be dry, especially if the author has an over-inflated sense of how interesting they actually are. Knowing how much to reveal and possessing the gift the deliver it well is crucial and it is present in this book.
It is a lesson in dealing with grief - Not in dealing with your own, not exactly. In that sense, it illustrates that the grief process is as random and varied as there are people on this planet. There is no set way to feel it or move through it or exist after it. How Ms. McCracken handles grief is her own process and serves as a reminder that there is no wrong way to do it. The lesson, though, is more for those encountering the grief of another. It's so hard to know what to say and while we grapple with our own inadequacy and discomfort, we convince ourselves that if we might say it wrong, we'd be better saying nothing. Many times in life, that might be useful advice, but in grief, sometimes simply saying "I don't have the words" is enough.
What I didn't care for:
As I said, I cannot be critical of the content. It belongs solely to the author. I can only comment on whether the delivery is engaging, which it was. What I struggled with was more personal. I felt a disconnect from the topic because I cannot personally identify with it. I could sympathize with how awful it was but I couldn't seem to...feel anything beyond that. I can also say that about two-thirds of the way through it was impossible *not* to feel for her whether you've been anywhere near her shoes or not and her brand of grief is so specific.
Grief is something we all understand, even if we've never experienced someone's particular sort of grief. The voice, the honesty, the lack of assumption that this is everyone's grief experience make it easy to relate to what Ms. McCracken shares. This book is clearly part tribute to her first son as much as it is a part of her personal grief process. At times, it felt almost too personal with its exposed vulnerability, like reading someone's diary, even though I was aware she published it. It felt almost like a training for handling the grief of others, as it allows the reader to come to terms with being in the room with that grief, yet not having to put words to the feelings or look their pain in the face.
One important thing to note: If you're avoiding grief of your own or refusing to look it dead in the eyes, this is not a book you're ready for because it does those things for the author, and in reading them, you may be forced to see your own, no matter the source of that grief.
What I liked about An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination:
An easy read despite the subject matter - There is no spoiler here. This book is the story of one mother's heartrending story which included the stillbirth of her first son. There was an honesty and a lightness to her words that captured both the inescapable heartache and the wish of a mother to be allowed to remember and share out loud the pleasures of what limited moments of joy she had with her child, even if that child had not yet entered the outside world. I am struggling to find the words that will express how...conversational the tone of this book was and that surprised me. Memoirs can be dry, especially if the author has an over-inflated sense of how interesting they actually are. Knowing how much to reveal and possessing the gift the deliver it well is crucial and it is present in this book.
It is a lesson in dealing with grief - Not in dealing with your own, not exactly. In that sense, it illustrates that the grief process is as random and varied as there are people on this planet. There is no set way to feel it or move through it or exist after it. How Ms. McCracken handles grief is her own process and serves as a reminder that there is no wrong way to do it. The lesson, though, is more for those encountering the grief of another. It's so hard to know what to say and while we grapple with our own inadequacy and discomfort, we convince ourselves that if we might say it wrong, we'd be better saying nothing. Many times in life, that might be useful advice, but in grief, sometimes simply saying "I don't have the words" is enough.
What I didn't care for:
As I said, I cannot be critical of the content. It belongs solely to the author. I can only comment on whether the delivery is engaging, which it was. What I struggled with was more personal. I felt a disconnect from the topic because I cannot personally identify with it. I could sympathize with how awful it was but I couldn't seem to...feel anything beyond that. I can also say that about two-thirds of the way through it was impossible *not* to feel for her whether you've been anywhere near her shoes or not and her brand of grief is so specific.
Grief is something we all understand, even if we've never experienced someone's particular sort of grief. The voice, the honesty, the lack of assumption that this is everyone's grief experience make it easy to relate to what Ms. McCracken shares. This book is clearly part tribute to her first son as much as it is a part of her personal grief process. At times, it felt almost too personal with its exposed vulnerability, like reading someone's diary, even though I was aware she published it. It felt almost like a training for handling the grief of others, as it allows the reader to come to terms with being in the room with that grief, yet not having to put words to the feelings or look their pain in the face.
One important thing to note: If you're avoiding grief of your own or refusing to look it dead in the eyes, this is not a book you're ready for because it does those things for the author, and in reading them, you may be forced to see your own, no matter the source of that grief.
margaret_adams's review against another edition
I got a copy of this book at the Tin House Winter Workshop, where Elizabeth McCracken was teaching. I'd just heard her lecture "On Failure" and thought, though I'd already read a collection of her short stories, that if her memoir-voice was anything like her speaking/lecturing-voice, I wanted a copy. This was a great, fast book, a weighty sliver of life in paperback binding.
“At that moment I felt so ruined by life that I couldn’t imagine it ever getting worse, which just shows that my sense of humor was slightly more durable than my imagination.”
“When I was a teenager in Boston, a man on the subway handed me a card printed with tiny pictures of hands spelling out the alphabet in sign language. I AM DEAF, said the card. You were supposed to give the man some money in exchange.
I have thought of that card ever since, during difficult times, mine or someone else's; surely when tragedy has struck you dumb, you should be given a stack of cards that explain it for you. When Pudding died, I wanted my stack. I still want it. My first child was stillborn, it would say on the front. It remains the hardest thing for me to explain, even now, or maybe I mean especially now - now that his death feels like a non sequitur. My first child was stillborn. I want people to know but I don't want to say it aloud. People don't like to hear it but I think they might not mind reading it on a card.”
“At that moment I felt so ruined by life that I couldn’t imagine it ever getting worse, which just shows that my sense of humor was slightly more durable than my imagination.”
“When I was a teenager in Boston, a man on the subway handed me a card printed with tiny pictures of hands spelling out the alphabet in sign language. I AM DEAF, said the card. You were supposed to give the man some money in exchange.
I have thought of that card ever since, during difficult times, mine or someone else's; surely when tragedy has struck you dumb, you should be given a stack of cards that explain it for you. When Pudding died, I wanted my stack. I still want it. My first child was stillborn, it would say on the front. It remains the hardest thing for me to explain, even now, or maybe I mean especially now - now that his death feels like a non sequitur. My first child was stillborn. I want people to know but I don't want to say it aloud. People don't like to hear it but I think they might not mind reading it on a card.”
jessalynn_librarian's review against another edition
4.0
I don't quite know why I like to read books about sad experiences I have never had. I do find it compelling to see what it is that an articulate person experiences during times of extreme emotion, but I also have a bit of a compulsion to know what these tragedies might feel like from the inside. In an odd sense, I think it makes me feel prepared to read about bitter things, a sort of pre-catharsis. Not necessary for a specific type of tragedy to happen to me, but to have the story in my mind when I hear of similar things. To have the tiniest, tiniest sense of what it must be like. This book is short but powerful. I was taken with the structure, the way the story moved backwards and forwards in time, telling you some things up front, and keeping others in suspense, in a way that never felt contrived or melodramatic.
conchfritters's review against another edition
4.0
a statement of fact: this is the second stillbirth memoir i’ve read in which an about 40 year-old woman carries past 40 weeks under the care of a midwife.
theyellowbrickreader's review against another edition
emotional
inspiring
reflective
sad
fast-paced
4.0
Content Warnings
Graphic: Child death
hannahwohly's review against another edition
5.0
Such a devastating topic but such warm language that makes you never want to leave the world she's writing in. Seems entirely on purpose but still processing that
hyzenthlay76's review against another edition
4.0
I don't know what compels me to walk around in the somber shoes of others' sadness, but I thank honest and brave writers like Elizabeth McCracken for allowing me to do so. She grants us a window to look in on the devastating loss of her first child and share in the delicate rebuilding of hope that followed. I loved the chronology of the chapters, a pendulum swinging between the unknown and the inevitable.