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The Mirror Book
Brave, explosive, and thought-provoking, this is a powerful memoir from a critically acclaimed writer. ‘It’s material, make a story out of it,’ was the mantra Charlotte Grimshaw grew up with in her famous literary family. But when her life suddenly turned upside-down, she needed to re-examine the reality of that material. The more she delved into her memories, the more the real characters in her life seemed to object. So what was the truth of ‘a whole life lived in fiction'? This is a vivid account of a New Zealand upbringing, where rebellion was encouraged, where trouble and tragedy lay ahead. It looks beyond the public face to the ‘messy reality of family life – and much more’.
259 pages, Kindle Edition
Published March 30, 2021
85 people are currently reading
608 people want to read
About the author
Charlotte Grimshaw
20 books59 followersCharlotte Grimshaw is the author of a number of critically acclaimed novels and outstanding collections of short stories. She has been a double finalist and prize winner in the Sunday Star-Times short story competition, and in 2006 she won the BNZ Katherine Mansfield Award. In 2007 she won a Book Council Six Pack prize. Her story collection Opportunity was shortlisted for the 2007 Frank O'Connor International Prize, and in 2008 Opportunity won New Zealand's premier Montana Award for Fiction or Poetry. She was also the 2008 Montana Book Reviewer of the Year. Her story collection Singularity was shortlisted for the 2009 Frank O'Connor International Prize and the South East Asia and Pacific section of the Commonwealth Writers' Prize. Grimshaw's fourth novel, The Night Book was shortlisted for the 2011 NZ Post Award. She writes a monthly column in Metro magazine, for which she won a 2009 Qantas Media Award.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 103 reviews
June 4, 2021
Charlotte Grimshaw’s The Mirror Book, is an exercise in revisionist history as the author challenges the family narrative spun by her literary father. Professional reviews of the work are enthusiastic and flattering. They praise Grimshaw for her bravery. They recommend her writing as beautiful. She is “peerless,” they say.One reviewer suggests that a relatively minor incident in the book is a “must-read” moment. The “jam incident,” as the reviewer refers to it, is about halfway through so perhaps they didn’t get any further than that because there are portions of the memoir that are certainly more gripping than the one about the jam. In all of the reviews, there appears to be a hesitancy to offer any real critique, fostered perhaps by a small literary community and a loyalty to artists over art. As we witness this procession of praise, we are left confused, waiting for someone in the crowd to call out that the emperor isn’t wearing any clothes.
In parts, the prose really is lovely and Grimshaw’s vocabulary is often specific. Such specificity is a treat for readers, who are then allowed to conjure up more precise images as the narrative unfolds. Readers might take delight in the first time that Grimshaw refers to her mother’s behaviour as ‘histrionic.’ Some of us might even need to look up the meaning. And what a joy it is to be introduced to such precise language. Sadly, Grimshaw’s persistent use of the word soon becomes tiresome. And ‘histrionic’ isn’t her only victim. Grimshaw’s writing is littered with weary echoes of pretty phrases. Some of this is intentional and those phrases are italicised. However, in many places the repetition seems entirely accidental and the reader is made to feel as though they have misplaced their bookmark and returned to the memoir two pages shy of where they ought to be, re-reading material they read the previous day.
A clear devotee of the truncated sentence, Grimshaw uses them with reckless abandon. Often, this is an attempt to build tension and to emphasise certain ideas, but the effect for the reader is a rather unsatisfying slog. She also uses the word ‘selfie’ in a peculiar way leaving us to deduce the meaning from the context (“Mazarine was all about not being allowed to be selfie”). It’s little things like this, peppered throughout the memoir, that leave us with the impression that Grimshaw is attempting to break the literary rules before she has properly mastered them, with little consideration for the experience of her reader.
Halfway through the memoir, readers may begin to wonder whether the repetition, the short sentences, and clunkiness are all on purpose. Is Grimshaw playfully tricking us into feeling the turmoil of her experience? Does she want us to experience the confusion of trying to unpick the past and fashion it into something new — something more true to lived experience? If we are to be generous readers, we might believe this is the case. But then we might think, bullshit. The act of publishing presumes an audience. The readers of The Mirror Book have come for a memoir, not some attempt at an avant-garde immersive experience.
In the opening pages, Grimshaw assures us that she is still devoted to her parents. However, what follows is a damning account of them as people and as parents. The target is mostly Grimshaw’s mother, Kay. After reading the memoir, it would be understandable if Kay chose not to describe her daughter as ‘devoted.’ This is not to say that Grimshaw shouldn’t critique her parents’ parenting. She’s entitled to. However, if you publicly and repeatedly tear into your mother (by painting her as cold, loveless, and ultimately dangerous in her parenting style), without seeming to forgive any of her faults, claims of being a devoted daughter begin to ring false.
The Mirror Book is preoccupied with honesty and Grimshaw paints the past as a battlefield full of distortions and denials. Unfortunately (perhaps for all memoir authors), memories just aren’t very reliable. Grimshaw reassures us throughout the memoir that she has researched psychology and it’s various branches, that she is being honest and self-reflective. So it is somewhat surprising that she doesn’t, ever, acknowledge that sometimes there isn’t just one truth. She never admits that memories are malleable and that we don’t always hold all pieces to the memory puzzle. Instead, she insists that her memories, of a fairly distant childhood, are vivid and accurate and that if her parents remember things differently, they must be lying and trying to silence her.
About her philosophy and worldview, Grimshaw tells us that she is “sympathetic to criminals in the sense that we’re all victims of circumstance. There’s very little free will.” But free will — and how much or how little of it we have — is one of the most debated concepts in philosophy. Possibly, she is trying to suggest that we are products of our environment. So, while she’s writing here about criminals, essentially her sympathy lies mostly with herself — it is she who is the ultimate victim of circumstance. And that’s an acceptable argument to make. However, the argument is pushed to its limits and is applied with great convenience. Grimshaw sees herself as artistic, intelligent, literary, funny, and curious. These things belong to her — they are treasures that she has evolved in spite of her environment. However, her isolation, her inability to connect with women, her fears, her anxieties, her criminality, and her pain — all of these things are from her parents. It’s inconvenient for Grimshaw’s argument but if there is very little free will — if we are just products of our environment — then we must attribute to our parents both blame and credit a little more equally than we might like.
Some of us — Grimshaw included — have had to work hard to minimise the ongoing pain resulting from the way in which we were raised. However, as we become adults we must begin to take at least some responsibility for our actions and decisions. Grimshaw tells us that she experienced trauma as a result of her mother’s withholding and lack of empathy. And all of her behaviour can be attributed to this trauma, placing the responsibility quite firmly on her mother’s shoulders. And probably her mother was withholding and probably her father isn’t a feminist. But she spends very little time considering the possibility of intergenerational trauma and how her parents might have been traumatised by their parents. She does wonder, briefly, if life might have been hard for her mother and whether Kay might carry demons of her own. However, she makes no real effort to understand where these have come from. She denies her mother the same empathy that she herself has been denied. And perhaps that’s fair. But it’s not obvious that this was done purposefully, in the name of fairness, leaving us unsure about whether Grimshaw is the victim, the villain, or merely an unreliable narrator.
The final pages have some redeeming qualities. The end of the memoir sees Grimshaw attempt a little empathy for her mother as well as her aunt. However, this reads more like an acknowledgement of a generational difference than a desire to understand the specific pain that those specific women might have endured. Again, she fails to extend to them the almost complete blamelessness that she so generously awards herself.
By the end, we are left with a sort of sadness for Grimshaw and her family. Grimshaw reminds us, frequently, that she was trained to believe that everything was material to be used for a story. And she has lived by that creed. But maybe The Mirror Book was just a little early. Maybe with a little more self-reflection, Grimshaw might have penned a more balanced and empathetic tale — one that explored the destructive nature of intergenerational trauma, one that painted us all as victims of circumstance, and one that she could have been the hero of. Then again, maybe Grimshaw has no desire to be the hero — maybe she’s still waiting for a devoted parent to fill that role.
In parts, the prose really is lovely and Grimshaw’s vocabulary is often specific. Such specificity is a treat for readers, who are then allowed to conjure up more precise images as the narrative unfolds. Readers might take delight in the first time that Grimshaw refers to her mother’s behaviour as ‘histrionic.’ Some of us might even need to look up the meaning. And what a joy it is to be introduced to such precise language. Sadly, Grimshaw’s persistent use of the word soon becomes tiresome. And ‘histrionic’ isn’t her only victim. Grimshaw’s writing is littered with weary echoes of pretty phrases. Some of this is intentional and those phrases are italicised. However, in many places the repetition seems entirely accidental and the reader is made to feel as though they have misplaced their bookmark and returned to the memoir two pages shy of where they ought to be, re-reading material they read the previous day.
A clear devotee of the truncated sentence, Grimshaw uses them with reckless abandon. Often, this is an attempt to build tension and to emphasise certain ideas, but the effect for the reader is a rather unsatisfying slog. She also uses the word ‘selfie’ in a peculiar way leaving us to deduce the meaning from the context (“Mazarine was all about not being allowed to be selfie”). It’s little things like this, peppered throughout the memoir, that leave us with the impression that Grimshaw is attempting to break the literary rules before she has properly mastered them, with little consideration for the experience of her reader.
Halfway through the memoir, readers may begin to wonder whether the repetition, the short sentences, and clunkiness are all on purpose. Is Grimshaw playfully tricking us into feeling the turmoil of her experience? Does she want us to experience the confusion of trying to unpick the past and fashion it into something new — something more true to lived experience? If we are to be generous readers, we might believe this is the case. But then we might think, bullshit. The act of publishing presumes an audience. The readers of The Mirror Book have come for a memoir, not some attempt at an avant-garde immersive experience.
In the opening pages, Grimshaw assures us that she is still devoted to her parents. However, what follows is a damning account of them as people and as parents. The target is mostly Grimshaw’s mother, Kay. After reading the memoir, it would be understandable if Kay chose not to describe her daughter as ‘devoted.’ This is not to say that Grimshaw shouldn’t critique her parents’ parenting. She’s entitled to. However, if you publicly and repeatedly tear into your mother (by painting her as cold, loveless, and ultimately dangerous in her parenting style), without seeming to forgive any of her faults, claims of being a devoted daughter begin to ring false.
The Mirror Book is preoccupied with honesty and Grimshaw paints the past as a battlefield full of distortions and denials. Unfortunately (perhaps for all memoir authors), memories just aren’t very reliable. Grimshaw reassures us throughout the memoir that she has researched psychology and it’s various branches, that she is being honest and self-reflective. So it is somewhat surprising that she doesn’t, ever, acknowledge that sometimes there isn’t just one truth. She never admits that memories are malleable and that we don’t always hold all pieces to the memory puzzle. Instead, she insists that her memories, of a fairly distant childhood, are vivid and accurate and that if her parents remember things differently, they must be lying and trying to silence her.
About her philosophy and worldview, Grimshaw tells us that she is “sympathetic to criminals in the sense that we’re all victims of circumstance. There’s very little free will.” But free will — and how much or how little of it we have — is one of the most debated concepts in philosophy. Possibly, she is trying to suggest that we are products of our environment. So, while she’s writing here about criminals, essentially her sympathy lies mostly with herself — it is she who is the ultimate victim of circumstance. And that’s an acceptable argument to make. However, the argument is pushed to its limits and is applied with great convenience. Grimshaw sees herself as artistic, intelligent, literary, funny, and curious. These things belong to her — they are treasures that she has evolved in spite of her environment. However, her isolation, her inability to connect with women, her fears, her anxieties, her criminality, and her pain — all of these things are from her parents. It’s inconvenient for Grimshaw’s argument but if there is very little free will — if we are just products of our environment — then we must attribute to our parents both blame and credit a little more equally than we might like.
Some of us — Grimshaw included — have had to work hard to minimise the ongoing pain resulting from the way in which we were raised. However, as we become adults we must begin to take at least some responsibility for our actions and decisions. Grimshaw tells us that she experienced trauma as a result of her mother’s withholding and lack of empathy. And all of her behaviour can be attributed to this trauma, placing the responsibility quite firmly on her mother’s shoulders. And probably her mother was withholding and probably her father isn’t a feminist. But she spends very little time considering the possibility of intergenerational trauma and how her parents might have been traumatised by their parents. She does wonder, briefly, if life might have been hard for her mother and whether Kay might carry demons of her own. However, she makes no real effort to understand where these have come from. She denies her mother the same empathy that she herself has been denied. And perhaps that’s fair. But it’s not obvious that this was done purposefully, in the name of fairness, leaving us unsure about whether Grimshaw is the victim, the villain, or merely an unreliable narrator.
The final pages have some redeeming qualities. The end of the memoir sees Grimshaw attempt a little empathy for her mother as well as her aunt. However, this reads more like an acknowledgement of a generational difference than a desire to understand the specific pain that those specific women might have endured. Again, she fails to extend to them the almost complete blamelessness that she so generously awards herself.
By the end, we are left with a sort of sadness for Grimshaw and her family. Grimshaw reminds us, frequently, that she was trained to believe that everything was material to be used for a story. And she has lived by that creed. But maybe The Mirror Book was just a little early. Maybe with a little more self-reflection, Grimshaw might have penned a more balanced and empathetic tale — one that explored the destructive nature of intergenerational trauma, one that painted us all as victims of circumstance, and one that she could have been the hero of. Then again, maybe Grimshaw has no desire to be the hero — maybe she’s still waiting for a devoted parent to fill that role.
June 3, 2021
I have no qualms predicting this might well be the best book I read all year. I should, while making this prediction offer the caveat that I am an absolute Charlotte Grimshaw fangirl. Grimshaw is undoubtedly one of the cleverest writers in New Zealand, her incisive ability to cut to the heart of moments, characters, relationships and places is always exquisitely conveyed in careful, measured prose.
This memoir, of Charlotte’s life growing up in a family of the NZ literati, in a house of strong opinions and wills, wild freedoms, great expectations is every part as interesting and challenging as I wanted it to be. I can see why it’s a memoir that has courted some critical feedback.
It’s a valuable examination not only of a family in conflict, but of lived experience. Grimshaw is so consistently clear in showing us how lived and remember experiences, although they can be shared, are framed so differently for us all. The Mirror Book is a true memoir of memoirs. In telling her own uncomfortable, challenging stories, Grimshaw reminds us all how significant it is to be able to tell our own stories, and create narratives in our own lives.
I’m looking forward to rereading some of Grimshaw’s fiction soon.
This memoir, of Charlotte’s life growing up in a family of the NZ literati, in a house of strong opinions and wills, wild freedoms, great expectations is every part as interesting and challenging as I wanted it to be. I can see why it’s a memoir that has courted some critical feedback.
It’s a valuable examination not only of a family in conflict, but of lived experience. Grimshaw is so consistently clear in showing us how lived and remember experiences, although they can be shared, are framed so differently for us all. The Mirror Book is a true memoir of memoirs. In telling her own uncomfortable, challenging stories, Grimshaw reminds us all how significant it is to be able to tell our own stories, and create narratives in our own lives.
I’m looking forward to rereading some of Grimshaw’s fiction soon.
Read
May 23, 2021It is clear from her memoir that Charlotte Grimshaw knows how to construct beautiful prose. Sadly, that is all I can say that is positive about this book. Her parents are almost more present in her story than she is and their comments to her about seeming to be “scolding” ring true to me. I also feel for her brother and sister that she paints in a bad light for no apparent reason. If the information she shared about them did not advance the story (which, in my opinion, it didn’t) for what purpose did she make them public? Other than being hurtful, I can’t see a reason. I was also perplexed by her complete confidence that she is such a competent mother. Perhaps she is. Otherwise, I hope Madeline is kinder than Charlotte when considering her view of her childhood in years to come. This book would be nothing if Charlotte’s father was not CK Stead. Many of us have had similar and worse childhoods and are able to take responsibility for our actions and lives. The number of times things happened “to” her showed a complete lack of regard for the impact of her own actions. I feel a sadness for Charlotte after reading this, but more sadness for her family.
June 15, 2021
The Mirror Book is a reflection on an extraordinarily privileged life full of opportunity and opened doors and travel. The author seems to take this all as her rightful due and this book is mainly about her trying to overcome her own internalised misogyny which, with a total lack of self-awareness, she blames on her mother. She also seems to be trying to have the last word on the various trivial family email feuds that have been simmering for some years before her parents (both close to 90) die.
Some really bad things happened to the author which should not have, I totally get her resentment of being used as material in her father’s work and there definitely were some instances of neglectful parenting and hurtful remarks. However, things like being told to vacuum her bedroom floor twice and being told off for not clearing up after dinner are not the instances of child abuse she imagines. I find it astonishing that a person in their 50s would still be bearing a grudge about such trivial incidents and think them worth recounting.
Some of the other things that she is angry about, she doesn’t seem to see in the context of the times. I am of a similar age to Grimshaw and the fact is that parenting styles were a great deal more laissez faire when we were children than they are now. She implies her parents were at fault when the children are not wearing seatbelts during a car accident on a family trip to Italy but that, apart from the family holiday in Italy part, was perfectly normal for those times. I also have the impression that women then were more socialised to put their husbands before their children than perhaps we are today. It’s definitely a fact that a lot of us had parents who thought it was perfectly acceptable to slap their children. Things are better now but many of us survived all of these things and more and don’t deny our own agency or hold our parents responsible for all our subsequent bad choices and unhappiness.
A lot of the reviews talk about how great her prose is. She does have a way with words although, in my view, she’s a bit too much in love with some of her carefully crafted phrases and descriptions, which are at times overwritten, and too often repeated.
This book reminded me quite a bit of Deborah Orr’s Motherwell- both books by writers with an interesting story to tell and the skills to tell it well which ended up as self-indulgent, under edited diatribes against their mothers- who from what I can tell probably mostly did the best they could at the time and in the circumstances. Both books also contained far too much amateur psychology but Orr, at least, had the decency to wait till her mother was dead.
It is really a shame to see talent misused to produce what is an exercise in pettiness, spite and cruelty. I hope when the author is old and frail and facing the likelihood that she will soon be widowed- as Kay apparently is- that none of her children decide that that’s the time to put the boot in with an unkind tell-all misery memoir.
Some really bad things happened to the author which should not have, I totally get her resentment of being used as material in her father’s work and there definitely were some instances of neglectful parenting and hurtful remarks. However, things like being told to vacuum her bedroom floor twice and being told off for not clearing up after dinner are not the instances of child abuse she imagines. I find it astonishing that a person in their 50s would still be bearing a grudge about such trivial incidents and think them worth recounting.
Some of the other things that she is angry about, she doesn’t seem to see in the context of the times. I am of a similar age to Grimshaw and the fact is that parenting styles were a great deal more laissez faire when we were children than they are now. She implies her parents were at fault when the children are not wearing seatbelts during a car accident on a family trip to Italy but that, apart from the family holiday in Italy part, was perfectly normal for those times. I also have the impression that women then were more socialised to put their husbands before their children than perhaps we are today. It’s definitely a fact that a lot of us had parents who thought it was perfectly acceptable to slap their children. Things are better now but many of us survived all of these things and more and don’t deny our own agency or hold our parents responsible for all our subsequent bad choices and unhappiness.
A lot of the reviews talk about how great her prose is. She does have a way with words although, in my view, she’s a bit too much in love with some of her carefully crafted phrases and descriptions, which are at times overwritten, and too often repeated.
This book reminded me quite a bit of Deborah Orr’s Motherwell- both books by writers with an interesting story to tell and the skills to tell it well which ended up as self-indulgent, under edited diatribes against their mothers- who from what I can tell probably mostly did the best they could at the time and in the circumstances. Both books also contained far too much amateur psychology but Orr, at least, had the decency to wait till her mother was dead.
It is really a shame to see talent misused to produce what is an exercise in pettiness, spite and cruelty. I hope when the author is old and frail and facing the likelihood that she will soon be widowed- as Kay apparently is- that none of her children decide that that’s the time to put the boot in with an unkind tell-all misery memoir.
April 4, 2021
I found this intriguing - kinda car-crash stuff - but ultimately the lack of self-awareness was bewildering and the end-result felt to me like literary elder abuse. But of course becuase it is other peoples lives I also found it somewhat riveting while it lasted.
June 30, 2021
I was so confused by this book and mostly I disliked it. In a nutshell:
1. writer is the daughter of a well known and celebrated author and is herself an author
2. writer had a confusing and hurtful relationship with her mother and (less often) with her father and generally felt her childhood, and family culture, was damaging
3. writer sees a psychologist and writes this meandering book about her life and her therapeutic journey
OKAY.
But - are we interested? Couldn't she have kept it private? Did she need to "out and accuse" her well known parents in a small country like NZ? Why does she portray herself as such a great parent in contrast to them? Why does she still seem to be a rebellious teenager and feel a need to humiliate her parents?
What I did like - when she was recounting some of her young adulthood stories - like the awful, lonely penthouse flat, and the death of her great friend.
I'm all for the toxic family story and I believe we all need to deal with the damage and trauma of our childhoods and lives. Good memoirs can be so helpful and insightful; but there is something in this book that just made my skin crawl.
I think I just wanted her to acknowledge the failures, guilt, sorrows and damage that is a part of normal parenting - her own as well as her parents. And find a bit of empathy!
Last word - I also found it extraordinary and bizarre the way she kept on quoting from her own previous books!
1. writer is the daughter of a well known and celebrated author and is herself an author
2. writer had a confusing and hurtful relationship with her mother and (less often) with her father and generally felt her childhood, and family culture, was damaging
3. writer sees a psychologist and writes this meandering book about her life and her therapeutic journey
OKAY.
But - are we interested? Couldn't she have kept it private? Did she need to "out and accuse" her well known parents in a small country like NZ? Why does she portray herself as such a great parent in contrast to them? Why does she still seem to be a rebellious teenager and feel a need to humiliate her parents?
What I did like - when she was recounting some of her young adulthood stories - like the awful, lonely penthouse flat, and the death of her great friend.
I'm all for the toxic family story and I believe we all need to deal with the damage and trauma of our childhoods and lives. Good memoirs can be so helpful and insightful; but there is something in this book that just made my skin crawl.
I think I just wanted her to acknowledge the failures, guilt, sorrows and damage that is a part of normal parenting - her own as well as her parents. And find a bit of empathy!
Last word - I also found it extraordinary and bizarre the way she kept on quoting from her own previous books!
May 27, 2021
Riveting, beautifully written but also unsettling- I felt vaguely compromised, as if I was complicit in something nefarious. I couldn't entirely swallow Grimshaw's take on her experience but didn't want to question it either. She has elided certain pertinent details and been glaringly precise about others. Hard to know. A compelling read nonetheless.
May 2, 2021
A gripping read, but I don’t feel that I understand the Stead family any better than before I started reading it...
Lots of jumping backwards and forwards time wise and too many holes for this reader. The blocks with the psychologist and looking at trauma was, for me, the most interesting part. I also truly hope Grimshaw is now able to make and sustain female friendships as that was a really sad revelation.
Lots of jumping backwards and forwards time wise and too many holes for this reader. The blocks with the psychologist and looking at trauma was, for me, the most interesting part. I also truly hope Grimshaw is now able to make and sustain female friendships as that was a really sad revelation.
December 7, 2021
1.5 ⭐️
Ironic that a memoir called The Mirror Book had so little self-reflection.
Ironic that a memoir called The Mirror Book had so little self-reflection.
July 11, 2021
Ok, well, this rating might change. I have a lot of thoughts about this, none of which I'm going to commit to right now as I think they'll change as I get some distance from this book. We are bringing her to town for an event, I think hearing her talk about the book will possibly influence how I feel about it. So in the meantime a middle of the road rating while I ponder.
May 19, 2021
A really incredible read. There is definitely something tragic about reading a memoir consisting of conversations, memories and moments that are picked over again and again, knowing that behind the words there are real relationships that are being impacted by this very public attempt at family relationship analysis. I was very grateful to read this book, though, because so much of what Charlotte was talking about felt familiar. An intense relationship with a creative but at times difficult father, being gaslit by people close to me, and wondering at the role of fiction in constructing identity, and the interplay between what is written down in fiction (and non-fiction) and real life. I think this book really illustrates a generational shift in what is expected of parents - there is now a quite firmly established consensus that physical abuse from parents is unacceptable, but this consensus is broadening to include emotional abuse. The gaslighting that Charlotte outlines in this book - being told that her remembrance of events is 100%, utterly and completely, Not Real - and the negligence she experiences, fall into this new category.
May 27, 2021
Charlotte Grimshaw, who comes from a literary family, exhaustively picks at one heck of a mother wound, setting out to prove to us exhaustively that her still-living mother was shockingly negligent and inherently malicious. She succeeds (Oh did she mention she comes from a literary family?), but the question of why, personally or professionally, WHY GOD WHY she chose to go public with all this remains. (Perhaps because – did she mention? she comes from a literary family?)
June 29, 2021
I can understand the mixed reviews on this book .. I think a lot of ‘feeling’ maybe stems from the readers own experiences of growing up .. ? This is Chartlotte’s story and regardless if I agree with it or not , I feel it’s a courageous piece of writing. A memoir purely from her perspective.as it should be .
November 4, 2021
So great.
A thoughtful exploration of childhood, family, parenting, relationships and the sense of self. So, so good.
A thoughtful exploration of childhood, family, parenting, relationships and the sense of self. So, so good.
August 17, 2021
i don't understand why charlotte grimshaw felt it necessary to publish this book. it's a therapy exercise, mainly a critique of her parents and her upbringing, which while far from "perfect" is, sadly, hardly extreme. many children unfortunately grow up with parents who are controlling, emotionally distant, or otherwise imperfect. the only thing that makes grimshaw's experience notable is that her father is a famous writer (as well as a philandering, narcissistic, entitled white male).
of course, she's a writer too, so the writing is nice and readable. but it's terribly repetitive, and bizarrely culminates in a hageographic tribute to the man she's just spent 300 pages accusing of gaslighting, controlling and emotional manipulation. she wraps up the whole exercise with a sentimental anecdote that shows us how much better she is doing at being a parent. which is great, of course, and it's great that she's working through her issues; it's just very odd that she felt the need to do it publicly.
of course, she's a writer too, so the writing is nice and readable. but it's terribly repetitive, and bizarrely culminates in a hageographic tribute to the man she's just spent 300 pages accusing of gaslighting, controlling and emotional manipulation. she wraps up the whole exercise with a sentimental anecdote that shows us how much better she is doing at being a parent. which is great, of course, and it's great that she's working through her issues; it's just very odd that she felt the need to do it publicly.
October 1, 2022
“Polynesian flavour” 0_o
September 19, 2021
Phew, this was punishing.
Okay so, finished it yesterday. Beginning with the good stuff: Grimshaw can write, and there are some lovely passages esp her depictions of 70s NZ childhood.
But fundamentally.. the book felt very ingratiating, petty, and lacking in self-awareness and reflection. In particular there’s a real lack of empathy or generosity afforded to the author’s parents, who obviously had failings, albeit nothing that read as especially grave. As I worked through I kept waiting for a revelation about the parents that never came.
Over the course of the ~300 pages Grimshaw methodically lays many of the difficult and crap things about her life at the feet of her apparently neglectful, reckless, cold, angry parents (and even edges that her mum gave her BPD!)
Conversely, she seems to perceive all the things she likes about herself (including the many book noms and awards she has won, and repeatedly reminds us of) as earned by her very own individual merits. Never mind acknowledging, even for a moment, all of the pleasures and privileges that her upbringing afforded her. Something’s not adding up matey…
Perhaps this is glib, but IMO the most grievous character indictment here falls just as squarely on the shoulders of Grimshaw as it does her parents: they play out their psychodramas over email. What can we draw from this?
Well, mostly that the book is Grimshaw’s attempt to secure the last word on a long exchange of terse, bitchy missives. Grimshaw often attempts to cast herself in a positive light. She describes nervously, and with great hesitance, sending an email to her dad - an email rather than a call or conversation because, she claims, that could spiral out of control. But the wilting, pass-agg excerpt she selects speaks for itself: “So, I hope you don’t mind my asking and obviously tell me to fuck off and everything, but would Kay not mind telling Leo to rebel at school?” Hm. Tell me who’s cold again?
Other specific annoyances: the author quotes frequently and at length from her own fiction books and stories… constantly reassures the reader that she’s read a lot of psychology (“hundreds of academic articles”) and done lots of therapy, though never quite manages to acknowledge the malleability of memory… repeats words and phrases (“minimum of piety”) so often as to insult the reader’s intelligence… repeatedly asserts her own excellent parenting and morals in contrast with her parents’… just.. wassup dude?
(She also claims she could “dismiss early on and with complete confidence” that Saddam didn’t have WMDs in 2001. Why didn’t you tell anyone Charlotte?!)
When her parents are dead - likely not far off - I wonder whether she will look back and cringe at the searing, self-involved treatment she’s given them here. (Quite possibly not?)
Which is a shame, I think. Because reckoning with your lot and then proceeding with love and acceptance is the only way to find peace I think.
The spinoff review was glowing, but then that’s a paper by/for Gen X libs so.. of course it was. Like Grimshaw, the critics speak to how “telling your story” is somehow existentially essential. Doubtless that ten out of ten well-paid psychotherapists agree. Blah. No. It’s bourgeois blather - a cynical, atomised, alienating view of the world which demands a soapbox for everyone. Sounds like a slippery place. Not a world I want to live in.
I paid $3 for this book in a Masterton op-shop. Glad I didn’t pay any more. You shouldn’t either.
Okay so, finished it yesterday. Beginning with the good stuff: Grimshaw can write, and there are some lovely passages esp her depictions of 70s NZ childhood.
But fundamentally.. the book felt very ingratiating, petty, and lacking in self-awareness and reflection. In particular there’s a real lack of empathy or generosity afforded to the author’s parents, who obviously had failings, albeit nothing that read as especially grave. As I worked through I kept waiting for a revelation about the parents that never came.
Over the course of the ~300 pages Grimshaw methodically lays many of the difficult and crap things about her life at the feet of her apparently neglectful, reckless, cold, angry parents (and even edges that her mum gave her BPD!)
Conversely, she seems to perceive all the things she likes about herself (including the many book noms and awards she has won, and repeatedly reminds us of) as earned by her very own individual merits. Never mind acknowledging, even for a moment, all of the pleasures and privileges that her upbringing afforded her. Something’s not adding up matey…
Perhaps this is glib, but IMO the most grievous character indictment here falls just as squarely on the shoulders of Grimshaw as it does her parents: they play out their psychodramas over email. What can we draw from this?
Well, mostly that the book is Grimshaw’s attempt to secure the last word on a long exchange of terse, bitchy missives. Grimshaw often attempts to cast herself in a positive light. She describes nervously, and with great hesitance, sending an email to her dad - an email rather than a call or conversation because, she claims, that could spiral out of control. But the wilting, pass-agg excerpt she selects speaks for itself: “So, I hope you don’t mind my asking and obviously tell me to fuck off and everything, but would Kay not mind telling Leo to rebel at school?” Hm. Tell me who’s cold again?
Other specific annoyances: the author quotes frequently and at length from her own fiction books and stories… constantly reassures the reader that she’s read a lot of psychology (“hundreds of academic articles”) and done lots of therapy, though never quite manages to acknowledge the malleability of memory… repeats words and phrases (“minimum of piety”) so often as to insult the reader’s intelligence… repeatedly asserts her own excellent parenting and morals in contrast with her parents’… just.. wassup dude?
(She also claims she could “dismiss early on and with complete confidence” that Saddam didn’t have WMDs in 2001. Why didn’t you tell anyone Charlotte?!)
When her parents are dead - likely not far off - I wonder whether she will look back and cringe at the searing, self-involved treatment she’s given them here. (Quite possibly not?)
Which is a shame, I think. Because reckoning with your lot and then proceeding with love and acceptance is the only way to find peace I think.
The spinoff review was glowing, but then that’s a paper by/for Gen X libs so.. of course it was. Like Grimshaw, the critics speak to how “telling your story” is somehow existentially essential. Doubtless that ten out of ten well-paid psychotherapists agree. Blah. No. It’s bourgeois blather - a cynical, atomised, alienating view of the world which demands a soapbox for everyone. Sounds like a slippery place. Not a world I want to live in.
I paid $3 for this book in a Masterton op-shop. Glad I didn’t pay any more. You shouldn’t either.
February 10, 2021
this memoir is insanely good. i haven’t read anything this great in a while but this is a book i want to keep on my shelf forever. i know i’ll re-read this many times in the years to come, not only for the beautiful writing but for the way it made me question myself, my experiences as well as my decisions in life.
charlotte grimshaw pens an astounding account of life growing up in a literary family. where everything is ‘fiction’ and nothing, according to her parents, is real. she details her relationships and experiences that end up impacting almost every aspect of her life as she’s growing up.
the way this memoir gradually builds up to trauma charlotte experiences and shapes the way she handles those experiences is honestly, extremely heartbreaking. i grew up in a similar situation where my emotions were neglected and gaslit from a young age, that I have now been diagnosed with BPD (borderline personality disorder) and C-PTSD (complex post traumatic stress disorder). it's crazy how something that seems so trivial at the time can contribute to a much wider and damaging impact on your life. it moulds an entirely new way of living / thinking without your control or the ability to acknowledge it before it consumes you.
i really loved and related to charlotte's relationship with alex, as it was a result of her grief and mental health at the time of louis' death. their relationship depicts the abusive narcissist with the emotionally abused woman. as awful as it sounds, this is commonly seen in women that exhibit behaviours of someone who has been emotionally abused.
charlotte's relationship with her mother kay, felt quite distant and not like you would typically picture a mother daughter relationship. it felt aloof and detached. kay's and karl's views really surprised me as i guess i just assume that many creatives in the academic field are usually more left wing and very into social issues, siding with the oppressed, not the oppressor. however, it did give me a peek into the way they think and why they live life the way they do.
i could go on FOREVER about this book and come up with so many discussion points but i think i will leave it here. this book absolutely tugged on my heart strings towards the end and i really hope that people pick this up and really reflect on the events and what they lead to. i can't wait to finally pick up mazarine and charlotte's other works as this was just an outstanding piece of literature that i will be recommending to everyone!
charlotte grimshaw pens an astounding account of life growing up in a literary family. where everything is ‘fiction’ and nothing, according to her parents, is real. she details her relationships and experiences that end up impacting almost every aspect of her life as she’s growing up.
the way this memoir gradually builds up to trauma charlotte experiences and shapes the way she handles those experiences is honestly, extremely heartbreaking. i grew up in a similar situation where my emotions were neglected and gaslit from a young age, that I have now been diagnosed with BPD (borderline personality disorder) and C-PTSD (complex post traumatic stress disorder). it's crazy how something that seems so trivial at the time can contribute to a much wider and damaging impact on your life. it moulds an entirely new way of living / thinking without your control or the ability to acknowledge it before it consumes you.
i really loved and related to charlotte's relationship with alex, as it was a result of her grief and mental health at the time of louis' death. their relationship depicts the abusive narcissist with the emotionally abused woman. as awful as it sounds, this is commonly seen in women that exhibit behaviours of someone who has been emotionally abused.
charlotte's relationship with her mother kay, felt quite distant and not like you would typically picture a mother daughter relationship. it felt aloof and detached. kay's and karl's views really surprised me as i guess i just assume that many creatives in the academic field are usually more left wing and very into social issues, siding with the oppressed, not the oppressor. however, it did give me a peek into the way they think and why they live life the way they do.
i could go on FOREVER about this book and come up with so many discussion points but i think i will leave it here. this book absolutely tugged on my heart strings towards the end and i really hope that people pick this up and really reflect on the events and what they lead to. i can't wait to finally pick up mazarine and charlotte's other works as this was just an outstanding piece of literature that i will be recommending to everyone!
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
April 29, 2021
This was a book I couldn't put down. It's a psychological journey that we are taken on and it might be challenging material for some readers. Full disclosure- I haven't read any of her novels, but I see Charlotte Grimshaw Charlotte Grimshaw walking in our neighbourhood and, due to her blanking me every time I walk past, had considered her as shy or disengaged. It turns out she has a condition that effects her memory of people's faces. Anyway this is a book review not a name dropping exercise. What I have read of her writing has been excerpts in Metro magazine, including book reviews. And, most importantly - in the context of the story, I know her to be the daughter of NZ man-of-letters C.K Stead.
The journey we embark on is an internal one for Grimshaw- in which she has cause to start reviewing her upbringing and re-considering the behaviour of her parents. She's an extremely talented writer, and I hope this review prompts others to read this title.
The journey we embark on is an internal one for Grimshaw- in which she has cause to start reviewing her upbringing and re-considering the behaviour of her parents. She's an extremely talented writer, and I hope this review prompts others to read this title.
May 25, 2022
Brilliant and well-written. There's a deep introspection yet every now and then I would cringe at how cliche and predictable the upper middle class pakeha narrative in NZ is:
-the end of marriage inciting a journey of 'self-awareness,'
-the neglected children who suffocate in the shadow of the nuclear family model,
-infidelity and silent treatment,
-binary thinking and fear of the "dark" thereby suppressing,
-denying and invalidating one's or another's experience of suffering,
-policing food and as a result parenting eating disorders,
-the stark lack of compassion and empathy
The book is almost a case study for pakeha culture. Given how common these themes and life experiences are, at times there are unnecessary elements of self-importance and self-indulgence but that can only be expected as a memoir. The depth is remarkable, especially when she describes dying of shame
I was obsessed with the book right away. The prose, nostalgia, pain, and details of New Zealand landscapes were great
-the end of marriage inciting a journey of 'self-awareness,'
-the neglected children who suffocate in the shadow of the nuclear family model,
-infidelity and silent treatment,
-binary thinking and fear of the "dark" thereby suppressing,
-denying and invalidating one's or another's experience of suffering,
-policing food and as a result parenting eating disorders,
-the stark lack of compassion and empathy
The book is almost a case study for pakeha culture. Given how common these themes and life experiences are, at times there are unnecessary elements of self-importance and self-indulgence but that can only be expected as a memoir. The depth is remarkable, especially when she describes dying of shame
I was obsessed with the book right away. The prose, nostalgia, pain, and details of New Zealand landscapes were great
May 29, 2021
A beautiful book. I enjoyed the acutely New Zealand context. Particularly its closeness to my own childhood in many ways... roaming around until the sun’s setting called us home, bare feet, and a forest of native bush only paces from the door step.
At times things were repeated, almost seemingly unintentionally, as if maybe it could’ve done with one more edit.
Never the less, I would strongly recommend this book, especially if, like me, you grew up as part of a semi-rural community and/ or in central Auckland. Perhaps you will also have parts of your childhood mirrored back to you x
At times things were repeated, almost seemingly unintentionally, as if maybe it could’ve done with one more edit.
Never the less, I would strongly recommend this book, especially if, like me, you grew up as part of a semi-rural community and/ or in central Auckland. Perhaps you will also have parts of your childhood mirrored back to you x
December 22, 2021
I just didn't gel with this book. I didn't care.
July 24, 2021
Yikes that was an uncomfortable read.
A book group book otherwise I wouldn’t have chosen to read this memoir.
I liked the recount of NZ upbringing in the 70s when kids roamed free.
What a heartfelt memoir of her upbringing, I wasn’t sure if she was sure she wanted to tell-all?
A book group book otherwise I wouldn’t have chosen to read this memoir.
I liked the recount of NZ upbringing in the 70s when kids roamed free.
What a heartfelt memoir of her upbringing, I wasn’t sure if she was sure she wanted to tell-all?
March 9, 2025
I finished this last night. Initially it was a four star read. However after letting it percolate and reading other reviews, I have concluded it is now firmly a five star read and here is why:
Charlotte is a year younger than myself, we grew up in the same city, both able to roam near, by and in the same glorious waters of the Waitematā harbour, of being in remote rural out posts and expected to entertain ourselves over the summer holidays. Charlotte's home base was significantly more urban, sophisticated and affluent than mine, overseas travel was not a feature until many years later than the Steads. Our parents are from a similar generation, mine slightly older, less literary more blue collar and double the number of children related to differing religious backgrounds. Yet the similarities in Charlotte's memoir were striking in regard to the unquestionable role of the patriarchy, the acceptable level of what is now in psychological terms considered to be neglect and the inability to empathize with the lived experience of ones offspring. We both had mothers with unconscious projections that landed for their daughters with unintended harm in a world that was different from the one they grew up in and fathers who were philanderers.
Of course this is Charlotte's story and not mine but when she writes 'I hadn't realised the way to save your life is to tell the story that is true'. I celebrated with fervor, admiration and joy. As she relates the courage and bravery it took to speak her truth, to heal her wounds to break the impact of generational trauma I felt total delight for her. For her statement is backed up by much evidence (as she discusses in her background reading) and there is another much touted truth ' we heal in community and not isolation'. Thereby writing her truth she is in fact helping heal others. This is not scandal or an attempt to discredit her parents and their achievements, rather it is it is as Alice Miller writes about forgiveness. Alice Miller and Judith Herman have both demonstrated that to forgive others, self forgiveness must come first, processing deep shame safely allows for mindful self compassion to follow. The process of bringing the traumatized disassociated self to consciousness is a well documented and practiced therapeutic tool. This memoir provides a beautiful template of this. I have been privileged to experience it myself and work with others as they go through it. However what makes this a standout read for me is the local nature of it. For myself to see it wasn't just me, nor was it just my parents, widens that circle of very real and not trite understanding that Karl, Kay, Les, Betsy and all the other parents out there are truly doing the very best they can with what they have.
As Maya Angelou says do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.
Charlotte is a year younger than myself, we grew up in the same city, both able to roam near, by and in the same glorious waters of the Waitematā harbour, of being in remote rural out posts and expected to entertain ourselves over the summer holidays. Charlotte's home base was significantly more urban, sophisticated and affluent than mine, overseas travel was not a feature until many years later than the Steads. Our parents are from a similar generation, mine slightly older, less literary more blue collar and double the number of children related to differing religious backgrounds. Yet the similarities in Charlotte's memoir were striking in regard to the unquestionable role of the patriarchy, the acceptable level of what is now in psychological terms considered to be neglect and the inability to empathize with the lived experience of ones offspring. We both had mothers with unconscious projections that landed for their daughters with unintended harm in a world that was different from the one they grew up in and fathers who were philanderers.
Of course this is Charlotte's story and not mine but when she writes 'I hadn't realised the way to save your life is to tell the story that is true'. I celebrated with fervor, admiration and joy. As she relates the courage and bravery it took to speak her truth, to heal her wounds to break the impact of generational trauma I felt total delight for her. For her statement is backed up by much evidence (as she discusses in her background reading) and there is another much touted truth ' we heal in community and not isolation'. Thereby writing her truth she is in fact helping heal others. This is not scandal or an attempt to discredit her parents and their achievements, rather it is it is as Alice Miller writes about forgiveness. Alice Miller and Judith Herman have both demonstrated that to forgive others, self forgiveness must come first, processing deep shame safely allows for mindful self compassion to follow. The process of bringing the traumatized disassociated self to consciousness is a well documented and practiced therapeutic tool. This memoir provides a beautiful template of this. I have been privileged to experience it myself and work with others as they go through it. However what makes this a standout read for me is the local nature of it. For myself to see it wasn't just me, nor was it just my parents, widens that circle of very real and not trite understanding that Karl, Kay, Les, Betsy and all the other parents out there are truly doing the very best they can with what they have.
As Maya Angelou says do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.
October 12, 2021
Sensitively and lyrically written, I could not put it down. A deeply personal account of Charlotte's story and life. I can understand why she wrote it now, and why she needed to. I feel she was very sensitive and empathetic to her family, highlighting both negative and positive and demonstrating how we are all human and heavily flawed. It was her narrative, her life, and her right to do so. Fascinating and gripping, she delved deep into her past and raised many questions about genetics and conditioning that I have also pondered and struggled with. Her description of Auckland, Karekare beach, Menton and London were exquisite and so richly written, you felt you were there. Recent current events were raised and were relevant to the questioning of her narrative. Despite often traumatic and difficult to comprehend life events, she handled it in such a rational, pragmatic way; seeking the truth and a way to heal. By writing this memoir, I hope she has made sense of it all - the closing was poetic and beautiful. Thank you for expressing yourself in the way you needed to, I loved the memoir.
December 12, 2021
Some bits were good but I stopped reading because I was bored and didn’t really care about anything I was reading. Even though the book was supposed to be an big exposé of NZ’s literary royalty, it was pretty dull. And even though it was framed as the writer revealing her vulnerabilities, which I am usually a total sucker for, I felt almost nothing. I don’t know why. Maybe because the writing was unbalanced - where was the curiosity about why her parents ended up how they were? How many of her own flaws were examined with searing honestly? I wish NZ wasn’t such a small literary community sometimes as it is almost impossible to find a critical review of a NZ author.
February 28, 2022
It's like journaling but taken to the next level. Themes circle back around, as the commentary and analysis build. CG approaches her analysis with a level temperament - which I find remarkable. There is no anger or bitterness. I was completely invested and deeply affected, more so given I have had first-hand interactions with some of these people, many years ago. The experiences of a childhood roaming through a mapped out territory resonate. But so much is startling in the emotional world that shaped her. Thank goodness for therapy and the recognition of the impact of childhood on who we become as adults.
July 17, 2021
I was riveted by this incredible memoir by one of our very best NZ writers. From the opening sentence onwards, I could barely put it down. While it is a story emerging from a very specific literary milieu, I could still relate to the terrible parenting described - all too common during those later 20thC decades. It makes me wonder how any of us survived. Brilliant.
August 12, 2021
To thine own self be true - the underlying message I got from this stunning memoir by NZ author Charlotte Grimshaw. Well known and highly regarded in her own right, she happens to be the daughter of 'famous in New Zealand' author CK Stead. A polarising individual, he is an outstanding writer, recipient of numerous awards and prizes, a professor, poet laureate and so it goes on. Charlotte's whole life and that of her two siblings, revolved completely and utterly around the orbit that was their father. Their mother, Kaye, came from a very humble, and as is revealed in this memoir, emotionally damaged childhood. The way Charlotte tells her story, Dad was in charge, and everyone had to bow down to his wants, needs, moods, womanising ways, mercurial tendencies. What a truly difficult and unpleasant man. Middle child Charlotte would seem to be the only one of the three children with the balls, the brains, and tenacity to challenge her father, by default her mother, and jointly her parents' parenting of the three children.
What a story she tells. With young children herself, her own life begins to implode when her marriage is threatened by her husband's affair. Rolling away underneath this impending disaster, with Charlotte trying to figure out why and how this has all happened, she realises that her life is one of complete denial and suppression of much of everything to date. It being a long and difficult process for Charlotte to find her true self, to have the courage to tell her story and in the process confront her parents and siblings with much discomfort, is a total understatement. And now she is telling her story, in her way, to redress and set the record, her own record straight so she can live freely. And there have certainly been some challenges.
Many times her childhood and family life were magical, fun, loving and connected. She has huge praise for much of the life her parents gave her. But within this tight family unit of exceptionally high standards there are some alarming instances of neglect, danger, survival, assault, bewilderment, denial, lack of emotional and physical care. Her loss of self comes from her parents' denial that any of the things she thinks/believes/knows happen to her, did not in fact happen as she remembers them. If they even happened at all. We all know the feeling when you share stories of events from childhood with your siblings and everyone remembers the same event in a different way, or something happens to your brother or sister, and you have no recollection of it. You start to doubt if what you remember is the real memory or not.
This is Charlotte taking a huge breath and opening up the shutters of her family life and in her own life, making sense of it, warts and all. It is marvellous, horribly honest, confronting. Most people would wait until their parents were no longer alive to open up, not this person! It is at times uncomfortable reading, but by crikey it is riveting and courageous writing. And my goodness can she write. She makes much reference in her memoir to previous writings, some of which I have read. Including Mazarine. I didn't get it when I read it and still don't get it! I have reread her short story collection Singularity, many of which have references from her childhood told in this memoir. They take on a whole new meaning when you know the real back story.
Outstanding writing and reading.
What a story she tells. With young children herself, her own life begins to implode when her marriage is threatened by her husband's affair. Rolling away underneath this impending disaster, with Charlotte trying to figure out why and how this has all happened, she realises that her life is one of complete denial and suppression of much of everything to date. It being a long and difficult process for Charlotte to find her true self, to have the courage to tell her story and in the process confront her parents and siblings with much discomfort, is a total understatement. And now she is telling her story, in her way, to redress and set the record, her own record straight so she can live freely. And there have certainly been some challenges.
Many times her childhood and family life were magical, fun, loving and connected. She has huge praise for much of the life her parents gave her. But within this tight family unit of exceptionally high standards there are some alarming instances of neglect, danger, survival, assault, bewilderment, denial, lack of emotional and physical care. Her loss of self comes from her parents' denial that any of the things she thinks/believes/knows happen to her, did not in fact happen as she remembers them. If they even happened at all. We all know the feeling when you share stories of events from childhood with your siblings and everyone remembers the same event in a different way, or something happens to your brother or sister, and you have no recollection of it. You start to doubt if what you remember is the real memory or not.
This is Charlotte taking a huge breath and opening up the shutters of her family life and in her own life, making sense of it, warts and all. It is marvellous, horribly honest, confronting. Most people would wait until their parents were no longer alive to open up, not this person! It is at times uncomfortable reading, but by crikey it is riveting and courageous writing. And my goodness can she write. She makes much reference in her memoir to previous writings, some of which I have read. Including Mazarine. I didn't get it when I read it and still don't get it! I have reread her short story collection Singularity, many of which have references from her childhood told in this memoir. They take on a whole new meaning when you know the real back story.
Outstanding writing and reading.
June 1, 2021
Gripping, unsettling. What is real? In a literary family, everything is material.
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