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4.14 AVERAGE
4.14 AVERAGE
Probably the best autobiography I've ever read. Jeanette Winterson manages to write a book that is both deeply personal but also universally relatable. About literature, love and loss. Utterly beautiful.
dark
emotional
reflective
I am a dedicated fan of a body of work built on semi-autobiographical grounds to begin with.
The latter half of the book, the more recent bits, are more raw and do not reference a back-catalogue of old friends.
She still writes like she's on fire in places, capable of alternately reducing me to howls of laughter or sobs.
Yes, Jeanette. You were always wanted and your words have been touchstones, homing devices. How fitting that you should write of longing but not belonging.
Addressing critics' declarations of your alleged arrogance in a handful of words read like a moment of pure triumph.
The latter half of the book, the more recent bits, are more raw and do not reference a back-catalogue of old friends.
She still writes like she's on fire in places, capable of alternately reducing me to howls of laughter or sobs.
Yes, Jeanette. You were always wanted and your words have been touchstones, homing devices. How fitting that you should write of longing but not belonging.
Addressing critics' declarations of your alleged arrogance in a handful of words read like a moment of pure triumph.
I loved this even more than Oranges are not the only Fruit, so...
Wonderful memoir by Winterson, especially as I read her masterpiece, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, for the first time just a few days ago. This would have been good all on its own, but it was especially meaningful and heart-wrenching read as a companion to the novel.
(All her talk of Manchester, where Winterson was born, is making me want to revisit some Elizabeth Gaskell. Or maybe just rewatch North and South. We'll see.)
(All her talk of Manchester, where Winterson was born, is making me want to revisit some Elizabeth Gaskell. Or maybe just rewatch North and South. We'll see.)
i enjoyed it but it was written in a way that wasn’t very coherent
Honestly didn’t *love* this book until about halfway through, and then I couldn’t put it down! The end gutted me. Particularly at the very end when she is talking with Ann about Mrs. Winterson: “She was a monster but she was my monster.”
I enjoyed her humorous, but also serious moments on serious topics. Read by the author, which was a joy!
I wasn’t really sure what to think about this book and I think that actually made me enjoy it more than I might have otherwise. I have never read any other books by this author although I was aware of her work. I liked the style of the book because I often find myself thinking about my own life and history in a non linear fashion and so that makes sense to me. We are absolutely different people and so some of her struggles and thought processes were hard for me to understand. I did grow up in the industrial north though so we share that. This book reminded me of my mum. I grew up with feminist novels on the bookshelves - I know mum had a copy of Fat Is A Feminist Issue by Susan Orbach - who it turns out is the author’s girlfriend, and I think I’ll be passing this to her. Not your usual autobiography but worth reading nonetheless.