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The Liars' Club brought to vivid, indelible life Mary Karr's hardscrabble Texas childhood. Cherry, her account of her adolescence, 'continued to set the literary standard for making the personal universal' (Entertainment Weekly). Now Lit follows the self-professed blackbelt sinner's descent into the inferno of alcoholism and madness--and to her astonishing resurrection. Karr's longing for a solid family seems secure when her marriage to a handsome, Shakespeare-quoting blueblood poet produces a son they adore. But she can't outrun her apocalyptic past. She drinks herself into the same numbness that nearly devoured her charismatic but troubled mother, reaching the brink of suicide. A hair-raising stint in 'The Mental Marriott,' with an oddball tribe of gurus and saviors, awakens her to the possibility of joy and leads her to an unlikely faith. Not since Saint Augustine cried, 'Give me chastity, Lord-but not yet!' has a conversion story rung with such dark hilarity. Lit is about getting drunk and getting sober, becoming a mother by letting go of a mother, learning to write by learning to live. Written with Karr's relentless honesty, unflinching self-scrutiny, and irreverent, lacerating humor, it is a truly electrifying story of how to grow up--as only Mary Karr can tell it.
“Irresistible. . . . [Written] with trademark wit, precision, and unfailing courage.” (O Magazine) “Mary Karr restores memoir form’s dignity with Lit.” (Vanity Fair) “A brutally honest, sparkling story.” (Glamour) “Riveting.” (Redbook Magazine) |
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“Mary Karr sparked a memoir revival with The Liars’ Club—now she’s back with Lit to describe how she turned those early troubles into literary gold.” (Body + Soul)
“An absolute gem that secures Karr’s place as one of the best memoirists of her generation. . . . [She] writes with a singular combination of poetic grace and Texan verve.” (Kirkus Reviews, starred review) “[Karr’s] poetic sensibility infuses every sentence of her story with an alliterative and symbolic energy, conjuring echoes of poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, and occasionally, Sylvia Plath.” (Publishers Weekly) “Her tale is riveting, her style clear-eyed and frank. That Karr survived the emotional and physical journey she regales her readers with to become the evenhanded, self-disciplined writer she is today is arguably nothing short of a miracle, and readers of her previous two books won’t be disappointed.” (Library Journal) “Searing. . . . A book that lassos you, hogties your emotions and won’t let you go. . . . Chronicles with searching intelligence, humor and grace the author’s slow, sometimes exhilarating, sometimes painful discovery of her vocation and her voice as a poet and writer.” (New York Times) “Karr could tell you what’s on her grocery list, and its humor would make you bust a gut, its unexpected insights would make you think and her pitch-perfect command of our American vernacular might even take your breath away…. [Karr] holds the position of grande dame memoirista.” (Los Angeles Times) |
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An Excerpt
Prologue: Open Letter to my Son
SIDE A: NOW
Any way I tell this story is a lie, so I ask you to disconnect the device in your head that repeats at intervals how ancient and addled I am. It's true that—at fifty to your twenty—my brain is dimmer. Your engine of recall is way superior, as you've often pointed out.
How many times have you stopped me throwing sofa cushions over my shoulder in search of my glasses by telling me they're tipped atop my own knobby head? The cake we had on that birthday had twelve candles on it, not ten; and it wasn't London, but Venice where I'd blindly bought and boiled and served to our guests a pasta I mistakenly believed was formed into the boot of Italy.
And should I balk at your recall, you may bring out the video camera you've had strapped to your face since you were big enough to push the red Record button. You'll zoom in on the 1998 bowl of pasta to reveal—not the Italian boot—but tiny replicas of penis and testicles. Cock and balls. That's why the guys who sold it to me laughed so maniacally, why the au pair blanched to the color of table linen.
Through that fishbowl lens, you've been looking for the truth most of your life. Recently, that wide eye has come to settle on me, and I've felt like Odysseus, albeit with less guile and fewer escape routes, the lens itself embodying the one-eyed cyclops. You're not the monster; my face reflected back in the lens is. Or replay is. Or I am.
...
SIDE A: NOW
Any way I tell this story is a lie, so I ask you to disconnect the device in your head that repeats at intervals how ancient and addled I am. It's true that—at fifty to your twenty—my brain is dimmer. Your engine of recall is way superior, as you've often pointed out.
How many times have you stopped me throwing sofa cushions over my shoulder in search of my glasses by telling me they're tipped atop my own knobby head? The cake we had on that birthday had twelve candles on it, not ten; and it wasn't London, but Venice where I'd blindly bought and boiled and served to our guests a pasta I mistakenly believed was formed into the boot of Italy.
And should I balk at your recall, you may bring out the video camera you've had strapped to your face since you were big enough to push the red Record button. You'll zoom in on the 1998 bowl of pasta to reveal—not the Italian boot—but tiny replicas of penis and testicles. Cock and balls. That's why the guys who sold it to me laughed so maniacally, why the au pair blanched to the color of table linen.
Through that fishbowl lens, you've been looking for the truth most of your life. Recently, that wide eye has come to settle on me, and I've felt like Odysseus, albeit with less guile and fewer escape routes, the lens itself embodying the one-eyed cyclops. You're not the monster; my face reflected back in the lens is. Or replay is. Or I am.
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