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Eating Children
Beginning with her father's death, the author of this book takes an autobiographical look at the traumas and outstanding events that make up the early years of her life. Jill Tweedie is a former Woman Journalist of the Year and the author of "In The Name of Love" and "Internal Affairs".
Jill Tweedie's second memoir, Frightening People, incomplete due to her tragically early death in 1993, is published here for the first time.
Jill Tweedie's second memoir, Frightening People, incomplete due to her tragically early death in 1993, is published here for the first time.
403 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1994
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About the author
Jill Tweedie
10 books2 followersJill Tweedie was born in Egypt in 1936. One of the foremost women involved in the British feminist movement, she worked for many years as a columnist on The Guardian where her writing with its warmth, wit and emotional honesty spoke to thousands of women. She wrote regularly for newspapers and magazines and was twice made Woman Journalist of the Year.
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Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews
January 10, 2021
1993. Remarkable account of her early childhood, her memory of details is astounding and moving. Apparently an extremely sensitive child/person who suffered much more than average from less-than-understanding parents, who however were probably no worse than average at raising children.
Although her experience of childhood is not one I share [consciously at least], it comes across as genuine and -- to me -- entirely believable. At an early age she saw through the lies told by her parents and all adults, and was happy only when in her own world with her little brother or other children.
p 67-69 is an amazingly lyrical account of her childhood holidays spent on the estate of an aunt, all the nooks and crannies, free of adult supervision.
How can there be so little attention to this book on [American] websites? Only 2 reviews on Amazon.com !!
Jill Tweedie (1936–1993) autobiography, Eating Children: Young Dreams and Early Nightmares (1993 - appeared just before she was diagnosed with terminal illness and half a year before she died)
Shortly before her death, when asked about the changes feminism had generated, she replied: "Assumptions about women are what has changed most radically. And a woman's whole psychic energy isn't wrapped up in men or nurturing the male ego. Young women don't appreciate that vast liberation."
QUOTES:
As human bombs, then, responsible adults were expected to fence us children in and keep a constant watch, for society’s protection. Left unsupervised for any length of time … who could predict just when and how we might suddenly go off? I, it seemed, was high on the list of suspects and, given half a chance, would quickly reveal the nitroglycerine at my core with an explosion of sin and crime, i.e., not going to church on Sundays, wearing dirty clothes, saying and doing unspecified dirty things, arguing all the time, never saying please or thank you … never listening when spoken to or taking that look off my face … or, indeed doing anything but the opposite of what my parents required me to do. Obviously, then, it was their citizen’s duty to prevent me putting innocent lives at risk by going off in this dangerous and uncontrolled way.
I knew I was suspect, and I did my best in idle moments to live up to this unsought reputation, but my own reasons for wishing to be left alone were different. Long ago I’d discovered that only when I was by myself could I stop things being so oppressively real…. Grown-ups had the knack of imposing reality when you least wanted it…. You could be in the middle of a great white hope … a daydream loud with bells and trumpets … when in they’d clump and squash it all under their big feet, talking in their clanging voices about what time it was and … why weren’t you doing whatever it was you weren’t doing. They stood there, high thick walls that blocked out the light so that your mind was trapped and shadowed over and the hope, the disclosure and the dream crumbled, there were no bells and trumpets, only the milkman outside delivering bottles. [71-72]
[I don’t identify with this but it seems an amazing insight into her own experience of childhood...]
They expected more of me. I had to do more and be more than Robbie but not in interesting or challenging ways, only in itsy-bitsy things like helping, not forgetting, tidying, behaving nicely, thinking of others, understanding them, being kind. Robbie was excluded from all this, it was as if they were allowing him to rest and save his strength for grander undertakings, as yet unspecified but sure to come. I quickly grew resigned to the concrete demands, they were manageable; you could refuse them and take the consequences, there was some choice. What couldn’t be refused or ducked or ignored were the unspoken demands, a constant static all around which I could only block out with noisier static of my own: tantrums, crying fits, fidgeting and other efficient distractions, bursts of rowdiness and an earnest, near vocational self-centredness….
My luckier brother came out of the womb covered in a mosquito repellent and they never bothered him. He played in a corner … absorbed in his games. The grown-ups nagged him to do this and that, of course they did, but whether he obeyed or not the light around him remained bright…. No distracting sparks jumped between him and them, no invisible strings twanged discordantly and went on twanging into his dreams, he was not brought low by sly injections of pity. He saw nothing; therefore had nothing to ignore.
Naturally, then, they preferred him to me.… Robbie’s faith that adults knew best gave him plenty of space to be himself. In turn, he neatly reinforced their faith in themselves, providing them with another cosy layer of insulation against the chill of fear, doubt and confusion which silently circled them in the darkness, threatening to rip off their elaborate disguises and reveal them as they really were, naked and frightened children themselves.
I’m aware of this only because I’m one of the grown-ups now…. The adults created their own micro-climate and when their winds blew I hunched over, gritting my teeth and fighting the drag, for I knew if I didn’t I’d be sucked in, eaten up and would emerge as somebody else entirely. The struggle … didn’t enhance my attractions to anyone… [41-42]
Although her experience of childhood is not one I share [consciously at least], it comes across as genuine and -- to me -- entirely believable. At an early age she saw through the lies told by her parents and all adults, and was happy only when in her own world with her little brother or other children.
p 67-69 is an amazingly lyrical account of her childhood holidays spent on the estate of an aunt, all the nooks and crannies, free of adult supervision.
How can there be so little attention to this book on [American] websites? Only 2 reviews on Amazon.com !!
Jill Tweedie (1936–1993) autobiography, Eating Children: Young Dreams and Early Nightmares (1993 - appeared just before she was diagnosed with terminal illness and half a year before she died)
Shortly before her death, when asked about the changes feminism had generated, she replied: "Assumptions about women are what has changed most radically. And a woman's whole psychic energy isn't wrapped up in men or nurturing the male ego. Young women don't appreciate that vast liberation."
QUOTES:
As human bombs, then, responsible adults were expected to fence us children in and keep a constant watch, for society’s protection. Left unsupervised for any length of time … who could predict just when and how we might suddenly go off? I, it seemed, was high on the list of suspects and, given half a chance, would quickly reveal the nitroglycerine at my core with an explosion of sin and crime, i.e., not going to church on Sundays, wearing dirty clothes, saying and doing unspecified dirty things, arguing all the time, never saying please or thank you … never listening when spoken to or taking that look off my face … or, indeed doing anything but the opposite of what my parents required me to do. Obviously, then, it was their citizen’s duty to prevent me putting innocent lives at risk by going off in this dangerous and uncontrolled way.
I knew I was suspect, and I did my best in idle moments to live up to this unsought reputation, but my own reasons for wishing to be left alone were different. Long ago I’d discovered that only when I was by myself could I stop things being so oppressively real…. Grown-ups had the knack of imposing reality when you least wanted it…. You could be in the middle of a great white hope … a daydream loud with bells and trumpets … when in they’d clump and squash it all under their big feet, talking in their clanging voices about what time it was and … why weren’t you doing whatever it was you weren’t doing. They stood there, high thick walls that blocked out the light so that your mind was trapped and shadowed over and the hope, the disclosure and the dream crumbled, there were no bells and trumpets, only the milkman outside delivering bottles. [71-72]
[I don’t identify with this but it seems an amazing insight into her own experience of childhood...]
They expected more of me. I had to do more and be more than Robbie but not in interesting or challenging ways, only in itsy-bitsy things like helping, not forgetting, tidying, behaving nicely, thinking of others, understanding them, being kind. Robbie was excluded from all this, it was as if they were allowing him to rest and save his strength for grander undertakings, as yet unspecified but sure to come. I quickly grew resigned to the concrete demands, they were manageable; you could refuse them and take the consequences, there was some choice. What couldn’t be refused or ducked or ignored were the unspoken demands, a constant static all around which I could only block out with noisier static of my own: tantrums, crying fits, fidgeting and other efficient distractions, bursts of rowdiness and an earnest, near vocational self-centredness….
My luckier brother came out of the womb covered in a mosquito repellent and they never bothered him. He played in a corner … absorbed in his games. The grown-ups nagged him to do this and that, of course they did, but whether he obeyed or not the light around him remained bright…. No distracting sparks jumped between him and them, no invisible strings twanged discordantly and went on twanging into his dreams, he was not brought low by sly injections of pity. He saw nothing; therefore had nothing to ignore.
Naturally, then, they preferred him to me.… Robbie’s faith that adults knew best gave him plenty of space to be himself. In turn, he neatly reinforced their faith in themselves, providing them with another cosy layer of insulation against the chill of fear, doubt and confusion which silently circled them in the darkness, threatening to rip off their elaborate disguises and reveal them as they really were, naked and frightened children themselves.
I’m aware of this only because I’m one of the grown-ups now…. The adults created their own micro-climate and when their winds blew I hunched over, gritting my teeth and fighting the drag, for I knew if I didn’t I’d be sucked in, eaten up and would emerge as somebody else entirely. The struggle … didn’t enhance my attractions to anyone… [41-42]
February 9, 2020
Loved the detail of this, a riveting read, but it did finish abruptly at the point when so much drama was happening! Not sure I entirely liked that, but the rest was good
October 13, 2022
this book was devastating and sometimes i could not grasp whether what i was reading was fiction or not. Jill knows how to write beautifully structured sentences that can break your heart while at the same time being you some witty humor within it.
July 11, 2014
This was one of the most deeply disturbing novels that I have ever read, dealing with very difficult emotions and factual information.
An emotional roller coaster of a read, however it would give me hope, for anyone who is suffering from severe mental or personal anguish.
An emotional roller coaster of a read, however it would give me hope, for anyone who is suffering from severe mental or personal anguish.
October 11, 2013
The best memoir I have read in ages.
October 5, 2022
Inspiring writing, and an autobiography that reads more like a novel. That, and a chaotic life-story, makes for compelling reading.
The trials of her life seem be largely self-inflicted, but one can’t help feeling rather sympathetic to her perpetual bad decisions. But it’s her brilliant wordsmithery that made me love this book. I have come across few writers in English that have such a command of the pen.
The trials of her life seem be largely self-inflicted, but one can’t help feeling rather sympathetic to her perpetual bad decisions. But it’s her brilliant wordsmithery that made me love this book. I have come across few writers in English that have such a command of the pen.
April 8, 2025
What an unhappy child ...
June 20, 2015
This starts really well and I would recommend reading the beginning for an account of Jill Tweedie's childhood. However, I've shelved it for now, as it's just too annoying to read about the life of a privileged upper class person who seems to have no comprehension of how fortunate they are.
October 31, 2014
An annoying book. I don't recommend it.
Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews