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368 pages, Paperback
First published August 30, 2005
She has nothing but contempt for those who try to categorize what they think she is, and lecturing her audience of chairs, she'll say, "It's ridiculous for the so-called experts to think they can label me as bipolar or manic-depressive" -- she knows the terms. "As if the essence of who I am can be labelled or stuck into a file or a book." By now she may well be shouting. "The uniqueness of the self cannot be pigeonholed! The self is always changing, always in transit and it's preposterous to think it can be nailed down by definition. Only small minds would think so." She also rejects the idea that her emotional weather might have been passed on to her by her mother, because to admit it opens the possibility that she might have passed the same weather on to her daughters, who reside in her memory as perfect and unassailable children.
When she's finished cleaning, she takes her daughter's bridal bouquet apart and presses the wildflowers inside the worn copy of Shakespeare, scattering the petals among stories of betrayal and misplaced ambition, mistaken identity and mistaken love. The scattering of flowers isn't a sentimental or even a symbolic gesture, but the grand gesture of an aging prima donna.