That fearlessness suffuses this book she stares unflinchingly at all that is hidden, difficult, strange, unresolvable in herself and others - at loneliness, sexual malice and the devouring, claustral closeness of mothers and daughters.
When Gornick’s father died suddenly, she looked in the coffin for so long that she had to be pulled away. It has taken me 30 years to understand how much of them I understood.” “I absorbed them as I would chloroform on a cloth laid against my face.
“I remember only the women,” Vivian Gornick writes near the start of her memoir of growing up in the Bronx tenements in the 1940s, surrounded by the blunt, brawling, yearning women of the neighborhood, chief among them her indomitable mother.
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