By Duff Brenna
“You’re killing me, Duffy,” the mother consistently acknowledged. In his memoir, Murdering the mother, award-winning novelist Duff Brenna elevates the obscene to the chic. he's taking the entire fabrics of complication and abuse in the course of an unsatisfied formative years and sculpts it into artwork, into anything transcendent. it is a heart-rending memoir that exceeds the expectancies one mostly has of a memoir, that's, it reads like an enthralling novel.
“Brenna’s event is all [t]here, in thorough, felt element; within the embedded discussion; within the scenes more true than reminiscence or invention; within the visionary realizing of gruesome and sympathetic characters; within the entire, self-standing episodes, woven into the chronological move. an individual following the landmark achievements of literary memoir needs to study from and have fun this outstanding book.” –Dewitt Henry, American ebook Review
“No one escapes this global unscathed, yet in Brenna’s case it’s whatever of a miracle, given his upbringing, that this memoir wasn’t written from loss of life Row. With nice ability, perception, knowledge, introspection, and in particular a feeling of humanity and forgiveness, a super author transcends the tragic and turns this robust, uncooked, heartfelt tale into the best art.” –James Brown, writer of This River and the la Diaries
“Perhaps the main impressive fulfillment of this notable memoir by way of award-winning novelist Duff Brenna is its humanity. The characters during this book–hell, its nonfiction, they’re no longer characters, they’re people!–do hateful, hurtful issues to each other. they're misplaced of their wishes, their aberrations, their desires, their longing–too misplaced to take inventory of the impression in their personal habit upon the folks with whom they percentage their lives and who depend on them, now not least the youngsters who're hostages to a type of madness…He isn't really settling previous scores–and god is familiar with there have been ratings he may perhaps good have desired to settle if he’d had a brain to. yet no, he's exploring–unsparingly, unflinchingly, yet in particular particularly, with stability and breathtaking honesty–the humanity of a gaggle of individuals born into and regularly making a form of hell within which they thrash round with out a clue as to the way to get out.” –Thomas E. Kennedy, writer of within the corporation of Angels and Falling Sideways.
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Extra resources for Murdering The Mom: A Memoir
A quiet girl-she was a year and a half younger than her brother and a year and a half older than Kolya Petrovshe read a great deal, and even at her tender age was tormented by the problems of relations among people: Why did her mother have to suffer when she was such a good person? Why did her father have to persecute her brother? Was this either just or fair? Why did God allow it-when God is supposed to be kind and good? Hundreds of questions like these swarmed in that little head covered with black hair, looking out on the world with mild, sad eyes.
She resolved to keep out of politics-firmly, once and for all. Hers was a strong-willed character, and she had great tenacity, which was very hard to imagine when one looked at that naive, half-childlike little face. Out of this marriage there came a first-born child, little Kolya. And after him, like mushrooms-one smaller than the next-came others ... At the age offour Kolya already knew how to read and to print. His parents loved him to an extraordinary degree, took pride in him, showed everyone how he was reading and writing and how well he drew horses and Christmas trees, houses and birds.
The large, old alder trees shaded the pool, where under the sunken logs crayfish nested and sleek, fat eelpout lay in hiding; over the water flitted dark-blue damselflies, their tiny wings vibrating tremulously; a dragonfly would launch itself from a dry branch and, making a headlong circle through the air, quickly return to its favorite spot. Kolya and his father sat down on the grass. On the riverbank the grass was cold, still wet from the morning dew. The sun played through the leaves; little slivers of light scampered across the mirror of the water.