SHE COME UNDONE PDF
She's come undone. byWally Lamb. Publication date For print-disabled users. Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files. She's come undone. byLamb, Wally. Publication date DAISY download. For print-disabled users. Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files. She's come undone by Wally Lamb, , Washington Square Press edition, in English.
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pleasure, and is better suited to stimulating the female sexual anatomy to orgasm . This model Introduction: Confessions. Read She's Come Undone PDF File. In this extraordinary coming-of-age odyssey , Wally Lamb invites us to hitch a wild ride on a journey of love, pain, and. Feb 7, eBooks Download She s Come Undone (PDF, ePub, Mobi) by Wally Lamb Read Online Full Free.
He went back up to their room and tore out the pages anyway. Figuring that publishers probably had slush piles, too, and that I might get lucky twice, I was busy stuffing and addressing manila envelopes the morning my wife came upstairs to my office and handed me a letter on Mary Kay—pink stationery. If I already had a literary agent, Linda said, I should consider hers a fan letter. A fan letter? For me? But if I was seeking representation and had anything longer—something of novel length, perhaps—then maybe we could talk.
My timing, however, was terrible. Judith took my completed draft with her to the hospital where she was about to deliver her daughter Lara by cesarean section.
She picked up my story anyway, planning to get through a polite twenty pages before sending it back with a no thanks. Still on maternity leave, Judith invited me to Manhattan for a meeting at an Upper West Side restaurant.
It was a scorching August day, I remember. Instead, I walked the forty or so blocks from Grand Central Station to the restaurant and arrived nervous as hell and sweating like a pig. Judith offered her hand for me to shake, and when I extended mine, I was mortified.
But Judith must have forgiven me my faux pas. We became fast friends and have remained pals ever since. I asked. Well, she could still be out there. She wants to meet Dolores, Judith informed me. No, no, Judith said. Just Dolores.
I was sent off on a six-city book tour—heady stuff for a high school English teacher, despite the fact that the sparse bookstore crowds sometimes included four or five employees hoping to help me save face. I had to keep flipping back to the book jacket photo to see if you were really a guy. But I had revised relentlessly. Yup, still there. I said when she pulled a sheaf of legal-sized pages from her bag. Laurie said it was a book contract. The publisher wanted me to write a second novel and would pay me an advance to do so.
Laurie said that was an interesting way to look at it and poured me some more Chablis. Before brunch ended, I signed on the dotted line. With Dolores and company off my desk and out in the world, reader mail began to trickle in. Telephone calls, too. The Pope? This, for me, has always been the cherry atop the sundae of all that came later. Twenty years, two literary agents, and four novels later, I now have several plastic tubs overflowing with reader mail, much of it about Undone.
And though I never tried to drown myself as Dolores did—I was a razor man—the scene with the [dead] whale was amazing. I felt like she was fighting for me.
And when that circle bubbles up [just before her whale surfaces at the end], I felt happy for her and really lifted. Thanks for writing your book.
Give my love to Dolores! Shalom, David F.
She's Come Undone Summary & Study Guide
I was sure it was going to be a best-seller. I called him up to thank him for his brave and amazing letter, and to tell him that I thought he, too, should pursue writing. He sounded painfully shy, shocked to have heard back from me. When I said I hoped to meet him someday, he told me apologetically that, although he would like to meet me, too, he could never handle such an encounter.
That initial exchange began a letter-writing friendship that exists to this day, twenty years later. Above a large photo of me seated before my high school students, one shoe untied, a look of befuddlement on my face, a headline asks, incredulously, WALLY WHO?
Today, that toddler I tossed into the air upon learning that my short story was good enough to be published is the same age I was back then. As I could not have imagined all of the above, neither could I have predicted what happened one winter evening in , shortly before my third novel, The Hour I First Believed, was published. I was reading from the book in front of a large and affable crowd at the Mermaid Bar, a downtown New Haven watering hole. When I finished the Q and A and was getting ready to leave, a handsome, healthy-looking guy in his early forties came up to me and said, Hey, Wally.
I wanted you to know that I finally took your advice. Standing before me was my pen pal of the past sixteen years, David F—David Fitzpatrick.
Miraculously, the right combination of therapy and psychotropic meds had allowed him to emerge, at long last, from the mental illness that had oppressed him and taken him out of the world.
Amy and I are engaged. But this time she's determined to rise to the occasion and give herself one more chance before really going belly up. In this extraordinary coming-of-age odyssey, Wally Lamb invites us to hitch a wild ride on a journey of love, pain, and renewal with the most heartbreakingly comical heroine to come along in years.
At once a fragile girl and a hard-edged cynic, so tough to love yet so inimitably lovable, Dolores is as poignantly real as our own imperfections. She's Come Undone includes a promise: you will never forget Dolores Price.
Inside the house, the glass-fronted cube is uncrated and lifted high onto its pedestal. We stand watching as the two delivery men do things to the set.
Now, I hear and feel the machine snap on. A star appears at the center of the green glass face. It grows outward and becomes two women at a kitchen table, the owners of the voices. I begin to cry. Who shrank these women? Are they alive? The two men and my mother smile at my fright, delight in it. My memory of that day is, like television itself, sharp and clear but unreliable.
My father and Mrs. If I reach far back, I can see my father waving to my mother and me and climbing down from his ladder, spray gun in hand, as we arrive with his lunch in our turquoise-and-white car.
Daddy reaches the ground and pulls off his face mask. The noise of his chugging orange air compressor is in my throat and legs, the sudden silence when he unplugs it delicious. There are speckles of paint in his hair and ears and eyebrows, but the mask has protected the rest of his face. I look away when his clean mouth talks. We lunch in the grass. My father eats sandwiches stuffed with smelly foods Ma and I refuse to eat: liverwurst, vinegar peppers, Limburger cheese.
Television watching became my habit, my day. But my palm against the box felt warm, not hot; soothing, not dangerous like the boy across the street who threw rocks. Sometimes I turned the checker knob as far as it would go and let the volume shake my hand. The one with the saddest life, the loudest applause, got to trade her troubles for a velvet cape and roses and modern appliances.
I clapped along with the studio audience—longest and hardest for the women who broke down and cried in the middle of their stories. I made my hands sting for these women. The latter he did on the first Saturday of every month, driving from house to house in Mrs. By the time I was a first grader, I was declared old enough to accompany him.
None seemed happy to see my father and most failed to notice me at all as I peeked past them into their shadowy rooms, inhaling their cooking smells, eavesdropping on their talking TVs. Masicotte was a beer drinker who loved to laugh and dance; the package store was one of our regular Saturday afternoon errands.
Cookie always offered me a cellophane-wrapped butterscotch candy and, by virtue of Mrs. My father was proud and protective of his own dark good looks. I remember having sometimes to hop around and hold my pee until he was finished with his long grooming behind the pink bathroom door on Carter Avenue. Daddy lifted barbells in the cellar—barefoot, wearing his undershirt and yellow bathing suit.
Ma and I whooped and protested, delighted with his play. After the television came, Daddy brought his barbells upstairs and exercised in front of his favorite programs. His contempt for them seemed somehow connected to his ability to lift the weights. According to my father, we should have been rich. Weiss the month before drowning in the Great Hurricane of Masicotte, it was the cozy residence of millionaires.
These included Mr. Masicotte and golfed for a living. My father forgave Mrs. His eyes jumped from the screen to her.
She's Come Undone
The weights wavered above his head. Just forget it. The barbell clanged to the floor, so loudly and surprisingly that my heart heaved in my chest. He followed her into the bedroom. Now I opened the clean pad to a middle page and drew the face of a beautiful woman.
My favorite color is magenta. Ma kept crying and apologizing. The ashtray sat on the edge of the tub, filled with stubbed-out Pall Malls; the bathroom was thick with smoke that moved when I moved.
I meant the drawings as a sort of comfort, but she told me they were nice without really looking. She took so long to answer that I thought she might not have heard.
Her breasts appeared and disappeared at the surface of the soapy water. Her nipples looked like Tootsie Rolls. Sloshing, she strapped her arms around herself and became, again, my proper mother.
What are you talking about? On the best Saturdays, after Mrs. He liked the way television watching had made me a mimic. Over and over, I sang the jingles he liked best. I sat in the backseat of the car, a sort of junior Mrs. Masicotte, and commanded my father to speed.
Here we go! We could be sitting in our living room. I bought this showboat from the old lady. The Saturday errands ended each week at the top of the long driveway on Jefferson Drive, where Mrs. We entered through the dark, cool cement garage, the Cadillac doors slamming louder than any before or since.
We walked up the stairs and opened the door without knocking. On the other side was Mrs.
Masicotte to be finished with the weekly business, two rooms away. Though Mrs. Masicotte seemed as indifferent to me as her renters were, she provided richly for me while I waited.
On hand were plates of bakery cookies, thick picture books with shiny pages, punch-out paper dolls. My companion during these vigils was Zahra, Mrs. Masicotte and my father laughed and talked loud during their meetings and sometimes played the radio.
Our radio at home was a plastic box; Mrs. I wanted my father to be at home laughing with Ma on Saturday afternoons, instead of with Mrs. My father called Mrs. Sometimes, when the meetings dragged on unreasonably or when they laughed too loud in there, I sat and dared myself to do naughty things, then did them. One time I scribbled on all the faces in the expensive storybooks. Regularly, I tantalized the dog with the cookies I made sure stayed just out of her reach.
I had long hair the year I was in second grade. Mornings before school, my mother combed the snarls out of my ponytail and dosed me with a half teaspoon of Maalox to calm my nervous stomach. My teacher, Mrs. Nelkin, was a screamer.
I spent most of the school year trying to be obedient—filling in every blank on every worksheet correctly, silently sliding oaktag word builders across my desktop, talking to no one. When I asked my parents how the baby got inside Ma, they both laughed, and then Daddy told me they had made it with their bodies.
[Read PDF] She's Come Undone (Oprah's Book Club) Full EBook
I pictured them fully clothed, rubbing furiously against each other, like two sticks making fire. All fall and winter long, I coaxed bottles toward the mouth of my Baby Dawn doll and scrubbed her rubber skin in lukewarm water in the bathroom sink.
I wanted a girl and Daddy wanted a boy. I imagined her lying on a hospital bed, calm and smiling, her huge stomach splitting down the middle like pants. The valentine party turned out to be a fifteen-minute disappointment at the end of the long school day.
As it drew to a close and we pulled on our boots and coats and stocking hats, Mrs. Nelkin approached me. I sat in the silence of the empty classroom with my hat and coat on and a stack of valentines in my lap.
With the other kids gone, you could hear the scraping sound of the clock hands. Horvak, the janitor, muttered and swept up the crumbs our party had made and Mrs. Nelkin corrected papers without looking up. She and Mrs. Nelkin whispered together at the front of the room in a way that made me wonder if they knew each other. Then, in a sweeter voice than I was used to, Mrs.
Nelkin told me I could go home.
Grandma led me down the two flights of school stairs and out into a taxicab, which took us to St. Ma would be gone for at least two weeks and she, Grandma, would take care of me.
We were having creamed dried beef for supper. The candles we lit sat in maroon cups that reminded me of our juice glasses from Mrs. My job was to drop the coins into the metal box, two dimes for two candles, clink clink. When Daddy came home that night, he lay in my bed with me and read my valentines. He looked up at the ceiling when he talked about Ma. Somehow, he said, she had grown a cord in her stomach along with the baby.My memory of that day is, like television itself, sharp and clear but unreliable.
But this time she's determined to rise to the occasion and give herself one more chance before really going belly up. Then I went back to my car, flipped to my work in print, and cried like an idiot. Scanner scribe9. At dusk each evening, Mrs.
In this extraordinary coming-of-age odyssey, Wally Lamb invites us to hitch a wild ride on a journey of love, pain, and renewal with the most heartbreakingly comical heroine to come along in years. This compared to the symbol of a whale. Masicotte, and commanded my father to speed. Ma's unwashed hair, matted and crazy, alarmed me enough to suspend the cold war against my father and contact directory assistance in Tenafly, New Jersey.
With each trip up or down the front staircase, I watched the portrait of Eddie, my dead uncle.
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