Mary Gordon Shadow Man

ISBN 13 : 9780517197103

Shadow Man

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9780517197103: Shadow Man

In The Shadow Man, the bestselling author of Final Payments and The Company of Women elevates the memoir into an uncompromising and unforgettable art form as she seeks to learn the truth about her lost father. 20 photos.

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Review :

For a so-called "Catholic novelist," the revelation that her father was born a Jew qualifies as something of a literary bomblet; that his past was a tissue of fabrications, that he became an anti-Semite and reactionary, is a revelation that haunts this unusual book. Gordon's search for her father, who died when she was seven, leads her to libraries and archives, to interviews with his associates, to family birth records and finally to the extraordinary project of disinterring and reburying her father's remains. The search becomes a literary quest in which Gordon transforms herself by transforming her images of her father.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. :

The night of my father's heart attack, January 14, 1957, my mother and I went to my aunt's house to watch television, as we always did on Friday nights. We watched shows about silly crackbrained girls: My Little Margie, My Friend Irma. Then the prizefights started. The women and the children disappeared. We played or talked somewhere else: we could hear the bell signaling a knockout or the end of a round, but it seemed terribly far away, in some country that had nothing to do with us.

My uncles drank beer out of glasses that I believed had come from Germany. They frightened me; the war hadn't been over many years, and I had visions of women with their heads shaved, made to stand naked in town squares, shot by Nazis. Or children starving, heroic, with one chocolate coin between them, which they ran a wet finger over each day, licking their finger, making the chocolate last for a month. I got the idea of women with shaved heads from television: Playhouse 90, a show my aunt and my mother were watching one night while the uncles were out at a basketball game. It was a show I wasn't supposed to watch. All the children were meant to be asleep, and my cousins were, but I crept down and watched the television from a stairwell, where the women didn't see me. I'd stolen a box of chocolate stars and shoved them hypnotically into my mouth as the television spoke about the woman with her shaved head.

I was sick with guilt and sugar. But I always was when I went to my aunt's house. We were always allowed to eat too much, too many things that were bad for us. We ate potato chips and cheap sweets and drank all the Cokes in the refrigerator; we laughed too much and were warned that that kind of laughing would always end up in tears. Sometimes it did, but not always, and it made us distrust our mothers because we knew they believed it always would. My cousins and I fought because we all wanted to be the mother-except occasionally one cousin would agree to be the child if she could be spanked on her bare bottom, hard. Afterward, I'd lie in my bed, feeling I'd just escaped something modern and dangerous.

That night, after I'd fallen asleep, the phone rang. It was Bellevue Hospital: my father had had a heart attack in the Forty-second Street library.

There is a sound of disaster, and a quiet after it, when the universe becomes still from shock, the wind stops, the light is colorless, and humans have no words because no words fit the enormity. Then a hum enters the air, and normal activity begins again, but slowly, as if everyone were underwater. People move, pick things up in their hands, walk from place to place, but the hum supports each action. You can mark the time when the disaster is complete and something else-the rest of life-begins. You know this because the hum no longer supports each act. I have never been in an earthquake, or the aftermath of battle, but I know their sound: the shocked sound of proximity to death. I heard it when my mother hung up the phone and said, "Your father's had a heart attack."

For thirty days, my mother drove to the hospital each evening to see my father. I wasn't allowed to go. I stayed with my grandmother. I slept in her dark room with the frightening pictures: the brown replica of the Shroud of Turin, a picture of Christ with long, smooth, girlish hair, pointing to his Sacred Heart, the size and shape of a pimento or a tongue. Most mysterious: a picture made of slats. You turned your head one way: it was the Scourging at the Pillar. Another turn of the head produced Jesus Crowned with Thorns. If you looked absolutely straight ahead, you saw the Agony in the Garden. I was kept awake by these pictures and by the room's bitter smells: lavender, ammonia, hair oil, liniment. Pine Sol always at the bottom of the commode: a green pool reminding you inevitably of the corruption that you, as a human, had no right pretending you could rise above.

One Monday night, I woke for nothing. It was nearly midnight. I went into the living room. My mother let me sit on the couch beside her and watch television. We watched Jack Paar. Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was the hospital. My father had just died.

It was then that my life split in two, into the part when my father was alive and the part when he was not. Since the first part lasted only seven years, my life has always felt unbalanced. The part of my life after his death kept growing; there was no way to stop it, except by my own death. There was no way to lengthen the other, to have more time with my father as a living man.

I understood what had come to an end. My mother and I moved out of our apartment into my grandmother's house. I never saw the apartment again, and I never saw most of the things I'd had there.

I don't know what happened to it all. The furniture, the lamps, the cheerful dishes. And my toys: my windup Cinderella, my tin dollhouse, the Alice in Wonderland rug. They were banished. Were they burned, sold, put upstairs in the attic? I was afraid to ask. My aunt who lived with my grandmother, with whom I would now live, said I had to remember there was very little room in the house. I understood. But nobody said anything to me about what had happened to my things. Everything was simply gone, no longer on earth. It had disappeared, as my father's body, for no better reason, had disappeared.

My mother bought twin beds and flowered cardboard dressers. We moved into an empty room in my grandmother's house. My mother impressed upon me that my aunt and grandmother were doing us a big favor in letting us live with them, that we mustn't seem to be in the way. I saw that she was happy. She had come back home. She wouldn't have to work so hard; she wouldn't have to come home from the office and cook the supper and do the washing and the ironing.

But she seemed to have forgotten what we'd had. She didn't miss our apartment, which was clearly much more like the movies than my grandmother's house. She didn't miss the Pyrex dishes in Technicolor shades, her wedding china with its playful patterning of unnaturally colored fruits. She didn't miss our trips to the movies, or listening to the radio (we'd had no television; my father wouldn't allow it). She didn't miss the songs we sang from musicals, our imitations of Irish priests and Italian barbers. She didn't miss going out to eat. She seemed to prefer my grandmother's dark living room, the lamps with golden handles and maroon bases and pictures of men and women with flowing hair and hats with feathers. The bust of Christ crowned with thorns, the tears flowing down his cheeks, which I enjoyed touching, feeling I'd stolen grace. And beside the head of Christ, a thin black stork riding on a turtle's back. It was said to be bronze, but no one believed that. Next to the stork there was a clump of peat, wedge-shaped and porous, that my grandmother had brought from Ireland. She wasn't frightened, as I was, of the bathroom upstairs with its blueblack linoleum and its pitcher full of overripe philodendron, whose stems I could imagine rotting in the yellowish water in which they stood.

She didn't seem to miss my father. There was no trace of him in my grandmother's house, and he was talked about only if I brought him up. I understood that if he was to be remembered, it would be up to me.

For a while, I thought he would come back. At night, I'd climb the dark stairs, certain that when I lit the light in the bedroom, he'd be there waiting.

Sometimes I wasn't sure whether or not I too had died. Often when I was near the edge of sleep, or ill, or cold, or when I became hypnotized by a repetitive physical event-the water going down the bathtub drain, a record spinning on the turntable-I would be caught up in a frightening spiral of language. I would hear a voice, my own, but speaking from so far away that it was barely recognizable. The voice was saying, "What does it mean to be alive?" And the words had no meaning. Particularly the two important ones:
"mean" and "alive." I was looking down at myself like a spirit peering at a corpse. And yet neither the spirit nor the corpse had any connection with each other or with me, the thing once comprehensibly known as "I" but now something else, something I couldn't name.

I had to allow for the possibility that I might be only an idea-but in the mind of whom? Or what? Not God, certainly. I knew it wasn't God; at that moment God was only one more instance of failed language. I longed for someone to rescue me, but I didn't know what would be rescued or what rescue would entail. The past was blotted out and memory obliterated. I inhabited a sickening present without words. Without, therefore, a future. If I was dead, I must always have been, and I would always be. The region I inhabited wasn't one where I would be reunited with my father. What was my father? Only another word I didn't understand. A figure in a mist, stirring no impulse of recognition or recall.

After a few minutes, a few hours, a few days (time had become unmeasurable), I would return to a place where I could use words without terror, that is to say, use them without questioning their meaning as I spoke. I could understand, be understood. I still felt unrooted, but at least I knew what I was about. I had a task. I was looking for the place where my father and I once were and where we could be once again. I peered through fog for a glimpse of a man who could not be touched or joined. I knew I wouldn't see my father's face again, or feel his breath, or hear his voice, but if I was journeying back in memory to places we had been together, I was engaged in a quest that was not only admirable but, most important, meaningful.

But this search wasn't my only job. I had another one, only partially connected with my father: I was trying to obey the law. A law that was not monochrome and flat but complex, full of color and gradation and interlocking design. Law like a peacock's tail that spread and spread and could repay endless attention. At the center of the fan, in the densest,...

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Mary Gordon
Edité par Random House Value Publishing (1997)
ISBN 10 : 0517197103 ISBN 13 : 9780517197103
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Irish Booksellers
(Rumford, ME, Etats-Unis)
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Description du livre Random House Value Publishing, 1997. Hardcover. État : New. book. N° de réf. du libraire 517197103

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EUR 125,73
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Frais de port : Gratuit
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