Who *are* these people



I don't think I'll ever get over the thrill of reading stories written by friends and relatives. But it has its unnerving moments. I've had two examples recently where it's hard to fit the friend/relative and the writer into the same slot in my mind.

My niece Edwina Shaw writes wonderful stories about unsavoury topics and makes them feel as if they're written from life. The new issue of Griffith Review has a story by her that includes a dangerous erotic frisson between a teacher and a student -- the link gets you a PDF of the first page -- and the table of contents lists it as memoir rather than fiction. Whatever happened to that sweet, clever little ten year old girl?

And what am I to make of this, written by a woman whose home-made ginger beer I have supped? 'Only those who kill understand life completely; only those who witness the eyes as they dull know the value of what leaves the body with the last breath.'

Posted: Thu - November 27, 2008 at 08:09 AM           |

©