In Search of Pain
I'm not sure I can write a straightforward review of Caroline Smailes' book In Search of Adam. I can't write a dispassionate impartial account, because I didn't read it that way.
I just finished reading it yesterday morning, and like everyone else who's read it, it made me cry. And cry, and cry.
But I can't talk about that purely in reference to Caroline's book, because most of the crying I did was for me.
I started reading it on the bus, on the way home from the launch of the book, last Thursday. It's terribly-terribly sad from the very first paragraph, but that's OK, I was prepared for that. I'd already read that first chapter on Caroline's website, many months ago.
But after that, it gets even sadder. And so I found myself on Saturday morning, sitting in a deli in Chorlton (procuring hangover food after a massage), reading Caroline's book... and I reached a point where I had to put it down and push it away from me.
And this is where the personal stuff comes in, because I was still reverse-packing for my week off, and at that point I'd forgotten about the crying bit. I mean, I'd forgotten that a few weeks ago I said that after I'd sent my book off to dozens more agents, I was going to schedule time to sit down and have a good cry. All I knew was that loads of stuff had been going on in my life and I was tired and hungover and emotional, and I just couldn't cope with Caroline's book on top of everything else. I pushed it away and even thought about leaving it behind in the shop. An impromptu Book Crossing moment. And then I thought that it wasn't the kind of book you wanted someone to read without some warning about the content, so that wouldn't work either.
And then the curiosity kicked in. I even thought about throwing it away, but I couldn't because I had to know what happened to Jude.
Jude is a six-year-old girl, and terrible things happen to her. Heartbreaking, unbearable things.
I've never been much good at coping with other people's pain. I feel it too readily. But I also want to write about it. I understand that urge.
OK, another digression. A few months ago... well OK, I can be exact about the date. I can be exact about the date because it happened two days before I discovered I was miscarrying. I probably already was miscarrying - I just didn't know it - and this may explain the extremeness of my reaction. I was surfing the net and I chanced across some porn. This happens. I'm sure I'm not the only person it happens to, so I'm not going to try and explain myself. I thought it was the ordinary kind of porn, but it wasn't. It was a video of a woman. Well, a teenager. Apparently. She had a school uniform on. I think she was probably older than she looked. I hope she was. Anyway, she got raped. I stopped watching before it reached that part, because I saw it coming. But I couldn't help myself. I had to be sure. I fast forwarded to that point. I only watched that bit for the second that it took to click on the STOP button again, but it was enough. I was devastated. I cried and cried and cried. I gulped, I sobbed, I couldn't breathe. I ended up ringing the Samaritans because there was nobody else around I could talk to. It was just a film, just designed for twisted titillation, they were almost certainly actors. But what if they weren't? And even if they were, how could anybody want to watch that, let alone make it? I was destroyed all day. I couldn't function properly, could barely walk. I had that post-shock clumsiness of heavy don't-want-to-play limbs. I've been accused of being naive about it. OK then, it's true. I'm naive. I'm naive about pain and suffering and porn and manipulation and I'm quite happy to stay that way.
And no, I've never been raped. Or abused, in any way at all. Nobody's ever hit me. Barely even shouted at me. Maybe that's why I find it so hard to take, to hear, to understand, but maybe that's why I'm also intrigued. Horribly fascinated. Hating myself for wanting to know more. Hating the woman that fast-forwarded that video. Just to check.
But that's the woman that took this book home with me - didn't leave it behind or throw it away. Wanted to know more. And wanted to check that Jude was all right.
And I want to let you know that it didn't keep going, that the pain and suffering lessened, a little. Only a little, but it wasn't relentless. And really that is my only reservation about this wonderful book. It's so well written, so beautifully expressed, so empathetic and unflinching and Jude is still in my head and will probably stay there for quite some time. But. I did wonder if the pain, the unending repeating no-not-more-again pain at the beginning of the book was a little... gratuitous? Unnecessary? I don't know how you measure these things, but it's certainly hard to read.
So I'm warning you, but also reassuring you, it doesn't stay that way. Not permanently. There are some happy bits too. There is some relief. And it's an incredible book, and I'm glad I continued. It was definitely worth it.
And I wrote most of this post, and the one called "Butterfly Soul", immediately after finishing it, and Caroline's writing style has clearly leaked into my own, and that too is testament to its power.
And back to me again. The book kept poking me. And it reminded me, that I needed some time to cry. And it reminded me as well, in so many small oblique ways, as well as one very big specific one (which I didn't see coming until I was almost on top of it) that I am sad, and that something sad has happened to me, and that only in January I was looking at a small white strip with two significant pink stripes - one paler than the other.
It's been cathartic, reading Caroline's book. It's let a lot of stuff out. It's letting a lot of stuff out. It's not easy to read, but it's sublime nonetheless, and it explains a lot about some of the things people do, as well as raising a lot of questions. If you have some spare Kleenex and any pain to let out, I recommend it. She's a very talented woman.
___
I just finished reading it yesterday morning, and like everyone else who's read it, it made me cry. And cry, and cry.
But I can't talk about that purely in reference to Caroline's book, because most of the crying I did was for me.
I started reading it on the bus, on the way home from the launch of the book, last Thursday. It's terribly-terribly sad from the very first paragraph, but that's OK, I was prepared for that. I'd already read that first chapter on Caroline's website, many months ago.
But after that, it gets even sadder. And so I found myself on Saturday morning, sitting in a deli in Chorlton (procuring hangover food after a massage), reading Caroline's book... and I reached a point where I had to put it down and push it away from me.
And this is where the personal stuff comes in, because I was still reverse-packing for my week off, and at that point I'd forgotten about the crying bit. I mean, I'd forgotten that a few weeks ago I said that after I'd sent my book off to dozens more agents, I was going to schedule time to sit down and have a good cry. All I knew was that loads of stuff had been going on in my life and I was tired and hungover and emotional, and I just couldn't cope with Caroline's book on top of everything else. I pushed it away and even thought about leaving it behind in the shop. An impromptu Book Crossing moment. And then I thought that it wasn't the kind of book you wanted someone to read without some warning about the content, so that wouldn't work either.
And then the curiosity kicked in. I even thought about throwing it away, but I couldn't because I had to know what happened to Jude.
Jude is a six-year-old girl, and terrible things happen to her. Heartbreaking, unbearable things.
I've never been much good at coping with other people's pain. I feel it too readily. But I also want to write about it. I understand that urge.
OK, another digression. A few months ago... well OK, I can be exact about the date. I can be exact about the date because it happened two days before I discovered I was miscarrying. I probably already was miscarrying - I just didn't know it - and this may explain the extremeness of my reaction. I was surfing the net and I chanced across some porn. This happens. I'm sure I'm not the only person it happens to, so I'm not going to try and explain myself. I thought it was the ordinary kind of porn, but it wasn't. It was a video of a woman. Well, a teenager. Apparently. She had a school uniform on. I think she was probably older than she looked. I hope she was. Anyway, she got raped. I stopped watching before it reached that part, because I saw it coming. But I couldn't help myself. I had to be sure. I fast forwarded to that point. I only watched that bit for the second that it took to click on the STOP button again, but it was enough. I was devastated. I cried and cried and cried. I gulped, I sobbed, I couldn't breathe. I ended up ringing the Samaritans because there was nobody else around I could talk to. It was just a film, just designed for twisted titillation, they were almost certainly actors. But what if they weren't? And even if they were, how could anybody want to watch that, let alone make it? I was destroyed all day. I couldn't function properly, could barely walk. I had that post-shock clumsiness of heavy don't-want-to-play limbs. I've been accused of being naive about it. OK then, it's true. I'm naive. I'm naive about pain and suffering and porn and manipulation and I'm quite happy to stay that way.
And no, I've never been raped. Or abused, in any way at all. Nobody's ever hit me. Barely even shouted at me. Maybe that's why I find it so hard to take, to hear, to understand, but maybe that's why I'm also intrigued. Horribly fascinated. Hating myself for wanting to know more. Hating the woman that fast-forwarded that video. Just to check.
But that's the woman that took this book home with me - didn't leave it behind or throw it away. Wanted to know more. And wanted to check that Jude was all right.
And I want to let you know that it didn't keep going, that the pain and suffering lessened, a little. Only a little, but it wasn't relentless. And really that is my only reservation about this wonderful book. It's so well written, so beautifully expressed, so empathetic and unflinching and Jude is still in my head and will probably stay there for quite some time. But. I did wonder if the pain, the unending repeating no-not-more-again pain at the beginning of the book was a little... gratuitous? Unnecessary? I don't know how you measure these things, but it's certainly hard to read.
So I'm warning you, but also reassuring you, it doesn't stay that way. Not permanently. There are some happy bits too. There is some relief. And it's an incredible book, and I'm glad I continued. It was definitely worth it.
And I wrote most of this post, and the one called "Butterfly Soul", immediately after finishing it, and Caroline's writing style has clearly leaked into my own, and that too is testament to its power.
And back to me again. The book kept poking me. And it reminded me, that I needed some time to cry. And it reminded me as well, in so many small oblique ways, as well as one very big specific one (which I didn't see coming until I was almost on top of it) that I am sad, and that something sad has happened to me, and that only in January I was looking at a small white strip with two significant pink stripes - one paler than the other.
It's been cathartic, reading Caroline's book. It's let a lot of stuff out. It's letting a lot of stuff out. It's not easy to read, but it's sublime nonetheless, and it explains a lot about some of the things people do, as well as raising a lot of questions. If you have some spare Kleenex and any pain to let out, I recommend it. She's a very talented woman.
___
Labels: Culture, Miscarriage
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