By Cynthia Zarin
This beautiful prose debut from prize-winning poet Cynthia Zarin is a poignant exploration of the author’s stories with love, paintings, and the shock of time’s passage.
Zarin charts the transferring and intricate parameters of latest existence and relations in writing that feels approximately fictional in its richness of scene, discussion, and temper. the author herself is the marvelously rueful personality on the middle of those stories, initially a bewildered younger girl navigating the terrain of recent jobs and borrowed residences in a long-vanished long island urban. via the tip, no matter if describing a newlywed trip to Italy, a child’s life-threatening disorder, Mary McCarthy’s dossier cupboard, or the internal lifetime of the New Yorker employees, this heritage of the guts exhibits us how power the previous is in returning to us with completely new lessons.
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Extra info for An enlarged heart : a personal history
She put a second onion on the chopping board and showed me how to make tiny crosshatched squares without splitting the root. ” The gray sky of the city out the back window of the kitchen was punctuated with white church steeples. Each set of bells was timed differently, so that the five minutes before and after each hour were cacophony. My friend’s mother was upset by this. She was drinking whiskey and she put down her glass. The disorganization struck her as unconscionable. Years later I had a friend whose mother threatened to blow up her house if she didn’t get a clock that worked, and I thought of those bells.
Early in the day when we had stopped for the cold drinks I had discovered that once again I was not going to have a baby. The knowledge both depressed me and lightened me. When I woke it was dark, my skirt was bunched under me, and my legs were bare. We spent five days in Sperlonga. Every day we slept under the rafters until the sun and hunger woke us, and then we dressed in cool, light clothes and went to the bar in the piazza, where pink plastic chairs ringed tiny tables, and drank coffee. I pretended to read La Repubblica, from which I could make out, with effort, the headlines.
She was not, as we could see, she explained, in Sperlonga. She was here in Rome, because she did not want to leave the apartment. Indeed she had not left the apartment for a week, except to visit her mother in her villa in Trastevere. Did we want something to drink? We did. It was eleven o’clock in the morning. She left the foyer and emerged moments later with tall glasses filled with limonata and ice. She made the sign of the cross. Her mother was dying in Trastevere. The mint in the limonata was from her garden.