At their worst, there’s little to distinguish poorly conceived memoirs from the kind of thing better suited for a mental health professional. At their best, memoirs burn through the “me” of the genre, and into the universal of the human experience. Those masterly memoirs are rare: Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” comes to mind. “Anything that works against you can also work for you once you understand the Principle of Reverse,” Angelou tells us in that debut autobiography, thereby generously bestowing her readers with the precious key to her own liberation.
In other words, a beach read offers escapism; an excellent read offers the means to escape. Enter, then, into my reading nights this dark winter season three memoirs written by women who have in common their gender but little else. Gallingly, none of the works rise very far above this special-interest corner; they’re neither sufficiently escapist for beach reads, nor sufficiently wise to offer the means to escape. “If you don’t like something, change it,” Angelou famously advised. “If you can’t change it, change your attitude.”
I AM YOURS A Shared Memoir By Reema Zaman
Of the three memoirs under review here, the most successful — by which I mean the one that does the most to reach beyond itself — is Reema Zaman’s “I Am Yours.” Zaman, raised in Bangkok by Bangladeshi parents (her father hails from the country’s ruling classes), is both privileged enough to receive an education and female enough to have that education compromised by the usual means. When a teacher stalks Zaman, everyone, including her father, dismisses her objections. “Power only responds to power. I have none. The predator is protected. I am a stain, initially irksome, ultimately forgotten,” she writes. Still, Zaman doesn’t turn cynical or bitter, just increasingly anorexic.
Zaman can write beautifully about the frustration and pain of being a woman in a man’s world, an immigrant in a world suspicious of outsiders. In the States she finds not only the promise of liberation, but also its opposite. A colleague rapes her; a man she has trusted. She decides to keep the assault to herself. “I cannot jeopardize my chances at staying in America,” she explains. “I’m profoundly American. I’m independence, grit and freedom of speech, personified. Staying here is crucial for the life I want, to be a voice for those without one. The irony is acutely painful.”
Still, a glorified journal is confined by the limits of its own scope. Zaman’s writing seems to have inspired her — she tells us so — but it’s too navel-gazing to inspire the reader. “I have lived a startling, beautiful life. I have survived and continued not because of confidence but because I have a confidante. Call thyself any name thou wish. Imaginary friend, art, muse, reader, guardian angel, higher self, inner voice, God. … You, myself, this, we are a truth.”
MOTHER WINTER A Memoir By Sophia Shalmiyev
Zaman’s memoir is merely good, but it’s streaks ahead of Sophia Shalmiyev’s “Mother Winter.” Shalmiyev has a lot to say: She is a Russian immigrant to America, the daughter of a lost alcoholic mother and a dark, abusive father. But what she says she says with so much I-am-woman-hear-me-roar abandon, it was all I could do not to avert my gaze out of delicacy for her, if not for myself.
“That night, in bed with my boyfriend,” she writes at one point, “I felt a certain kind of desperate passion — like a cheetah attacking a water buffalo — amplified by him being monotone and withholding.” Cheetahs and water buffaloes don’t exist in nature together, for a start. Still, not 30 pages later we’re told: “A rhino hunted for its ivory runs in fear of captivity. She knows not whether the gun pointed at her from the chopper is to kill her or is a stun gun to knock her out and take her to safety.”
Rhinos have horns, not ivory. These are pointless, sloppy sentences, and they highlight the central problem of this book. Shalmiyev has plenty of genuine self-concern, but beyond herself she seems capable of thinking only in stereotypes; she can’t see beyond her own suffering let alone get her readers there. “What if the name of the town and country you were born in changed after you left? What if you lived in three different countries within a year right before you hit puberty?” This reader’s response to that rhetorical question is: It’s the memoirist’s job to figure out those basic questions, and then write us your considered answers.
DEEP CREEK Finding Hope in the High Country By Pam Houston
Which brings me to Pam Houston’s regrettable “Deep Creek.” It’s ostensibly the story of the lifesaving properties of her high-elevation ranch in Colorado, although there’s not much to cultivate up there in the long winters except, apparently, self-delusion and acres of self-satisfied contradictions.
Houston begins her narrative by telling us, in her introduction, that she’s “happiest with one plane ticket in my hand and another in my underwear drawer. Motion improves any day for me — the farther the faster the better.” She ends the book by recounting her boat trip through the Fury and Hecla Strait. “I was face to face with my familiar koan: how to be with the incandescent beauty of the iceberg without grieving the loss of polar bear habitat.”
She’s learned nothing, in other words, between the first pages and the last.
In the meantime, however, we learn that social media too makes Houston grieve: “Facebook has already made me cry four times this morning,” she writes roughly a third of a way through a tedious missive. “First it was Ursula Le Guin reminding me we don’t write for profit, we write for freedom; next it was a video of the Unist’ot’en indigenous camp resistance trying to stop the Keystone pipeline; and then it was the state of Nevada electing a man to their house of representatives who said ‘simple-minded darkies’ show ‘lack of gratitude’ to whites.”
The social and environmental injustices that reduce Houston to tears are no accident; they’re a fairly widespread global arrangement in which many of us are wittingly or unwittingly complicit. Houston has always wanted to be “a child of the wilderness,” she tells us, but she’s now an elder; it’s time to do the hard work of connecting the dots between cause and effect. She might, for example, have scrutinized the roots of racism and indigenous American resistance in and around her beloved patch of barbed-wired-off paradise. She might have told us what she herself was doing to combat this climate change she so laments. That would have been the beginning of a decent, possibly instructive memoir, or at least something beyond these sleepy musings.B:
2017年特肖秘籍01一152【温】【熙】【都】【没】【了】【平】【时】【的】【冷】【静】，【连】【忙】【拆】【开】【家】【书】，【看】【着】【熟】【悉】【的】【笔】【记】，【眼】【眶】【有】【些】【湿】【润】。 “【爷】【爷】【身】【体】【还】【好】【吗】？”【这】【是】【温】【熙】【最】【关】【心】【的】。“【还】【有】【师】【父】……” “【老】【爷】【子】【身】【体】【很】【好】，【您】【师】【父】【一】【直】【居】【于】【深】【山】，【但】【是】【百】【草】【堂】【的】【药】【没】【断】【过】，【应】【该】【身】【体】【不】【错】……”【贺】【小】【宝】【回】【答】【道】。 【凌】【颜】【染】【看】【了】【一】【下】【凌】【天】【傲】【的】【笔】【迹】，【微】【微】【笑】【了】【笑】，“【大】【哥】【身】【体】
【世】【界】【上】【最】【快】【而】【又】【最】【慢】，【最】【长】【而】【又】【最】【短】，【最】【平】【凡】【而】【又】【最】【珍】【贵】，【最】【易】【被】【忽】【视】【而】【又】【最】【令】【人】【后】【悔】【的】【就】【是】【时】【间】。 .【起】.【点】.【首】..【发】 【而】【在】【快】【乐】【时】【候】，【时】【间】【总】【是】【显】【得】【那】【么】【短】【暂】!【就】【好】【像】【奇】【一】，【感】【觉】【自】【己】【只】【是】【吃】【了】【几】【顿】【饭】【而】【已】，【菜】【单】【上】【大】【把】【的】【美】【食】【还】【没】【有】【尝】【到】，【时】
【水】【晶】【宫】【殿】【内】，【高】【坐】【于】【九】【色】【珊】【瑚】【宝】【座】【上】【的】【渊】【海】【之】【主】【敖】【昰】【看】【到】【十】【方】【龙】【王】【的】【狼】【狈】【模】【样】，【转】【头】【向】【其】【子】【敖】【鸿】【吩】【咐】【道】：“【让】【海】【兽】【退】【下】【吧】！【既】【是】【三】【家】【合】【议】，【总】【不】【能】【只】【有】【我】【族】【出】【力】，【而】【他】【们】【作】【壁】【上】【观】。” 【敖】【鸿】【听】【到】【父】【王】【的】【话】，【抬】【头】【张】【口】【欲】【言】，【但】【最】【终】【还】【是】【什】【么】【也】【没】【说】，【应】【了】【一】【声】：“【喏】。” 【虽】【然】【海】【族】【退】【去】，【潮】【水】【也】【慢】【慢】【恢】【复】【到】【以】【往】
【接】【下】【来】【几】【日】，【沈】【长】【明】【三】【人】【经】【常】【去】【找】【黄】【敢】【三】【人】，【有】【时】【见】【黄】【敢】【他】【们】【白】【日】【忙】【些】，【便】【晚】【上】【去】。【常】【常】【一】【聊】【便】【是】【半】【夜】。【黄】【敢】【三】【人】【见】【沈】【长】【明】【他】【们】【询】【问】【的】【都】【是】【如】【何】【治】【军】、【领】【军】，【顿】【时】【也】【有】【所】【明】【悟】，【若】【是】【真】【的】，【恐】【怕】【这】【三】【人】【就】【是】【自】【己】【以】【后】【的】【下】【属】【了】，【搞】【好】【关】【系】【也】【是】【应】【该】【的】。【所】【以】【也】【很】【是】【热】【情】，【有】【问】【有】【答】。 【终】【于】，【到】【了】【第】【三】【日】，【骑】【军】【在】【城】【外】2017年特肖秘籍01一152“【阿】【弥】【陀】【佛】，【善】【哉】！【善】【哉】！【大】【界】【佛】【罗】【慈】【悲】，【不】【杀】【从】【善】【邪】【魔】，【多】【颜】！【你】【休】【要】【执】【迷】【不】【悟】，【一】【味】【误】【宙】【误】【己】【了】！” “【我】【呸】【逐】【缘】【秃】【驴】，【你】【一】【个】【新】【萌】【和】【尚】，【尚】【任】【何】【宙】【位】，【凭】【什】【么】【这】【么】【多】【事】，【横】【加】【管】【我】【颜】【源】【幻】【界】【之】【事】！” “【阿】【弥】【陀】【佛】，【大】【界】【佛】【德】，【本】【逐】【缘】【宙】【佛】【天】【性】【使】【然】，【看】【不】【得】【任】【何】【祸】【害】【无】【限】【元】【界】【和】【平】【之】【事】，【更】【不】【会】【眼】【看】【你】【盗】【走】
【十】【年】【后】。 【第】【五】【十】【三】【届】【华】【夏】【国】【际】【电】【影】【节】【现】【场】，【台】【上】【的】【季】【锦】【里】【穿】【着】【一】【身】【暗】【花】【黑】【西】【装】，【同】【色】【系】【领】【结】，【搭】【配】【价】【值】【不】【菲】【的】【腕】【表】，【举】【手】【投】【足】【尽】【显】【绅】【士】【风】【范】。 【虽】【然】【年】【龄】【已】【经】【步】【入】【三】【十】，【但】【岁】【月】【却】【没】【有】【在】【他】【脸】【上】【留】【下】【多】【少】【痕】【迹】，【反】【而】【比】【年】【轻】【时】【多】【了】【一】【种】【沉】【稳】、【独】【特】【的】【气】【质】，【尤】【其】【那】【双】【不】【笑】【也】【含】【三】【分】【情】【的】【桃】【花】【眼】，【随】【着】【阅】【历】【的】【提】【升】【越】
【五】【月】【十】【五】【号】，【六】【十】【一】【届】【戛】【纳】【电】【影】【节】【在】【和】【煦】【的】【阳】【光】【下】、【袭】【人】【的】【海】【风】【中】【迎】【来】【开】【幕】【典】【礼】。 【来】【自】【于】【美】【利】【坚】【的】【评】【委】【会】【主】【席】，【即】【是】【演】【员】【也】【是】【导】【演】【的】【西】【恩】【潘】，【领】【着】【甘】【韬】【等】【八】【位】【评】【委】，【以】【前】【五】【后】【四】，【快】【慢】【不】【一】【的】【排】【列】【顺】【序】【率】【先】【踏】【上】【六】【十】【米】【长】【的】【红】【毯】。 “【嗨】，【甘】，【高】【兴】【点】，【今】【天】【是】【个】【重】【要】【的】【日】【子】！” 【九】【人】【队】【伍】【的】【某】【尾】，【有】【点】【沉】【默】
【各】【位】【仁】【兄】【不】【用】【等】【了】，【没】【那】【么】【多】【时】【间】【写】【小】【说】【了】，【精】【力】【不】【够】【用】，【只】【能】【开】【一】【本】，【想】【来】【想】【去】【还】【是】【决】【定】【继】【续】【写】【老】【书】，【虽】【然】【赚】【不】【到】【钱】，【却】【也】【能】【了】【却】【一】【份】【念】【想】，【算】【是】【为】【爱】【发】【电】【吧】！ 【诚】【恳】【的】【道】【歉】！ 【老】【书】—— 《【重】【生】【之】【死】【灵】【牧】【师】》66w【字】，【可】【宰】，【以】【后】【就】【这】【这】【一】【本】，【没】【写】【完】【不】【开】【新】【书】！ 【笔】【名】：【未】【廿】 【再】【次】【抱】【歉】<