A Winterson title always takes me time to deliberate before I actually choose to read it. I purchased this in early Jan of 2014, keeping it pristinely bubble-wrapped (along with others) until last week. Whether out of loss and numbness, of self-conceited complacency or as a plain treat, I finally was ready to read Winterson's memoir.
She wrote with searing frankness and vulnerability. I suppose she has reached that stage in life where she cares nothing except for her own emotional welfare and sense of identity. The things that give us our names... These she explores keenly and sacrificially. Home and love, always.
(I want to talk about being happy, but it begets nothing because happy is short-lived. Joy is what we seek.)
"You cannot disown what is yours. Flung out, there is always the return, the reckoning, the revenge, perhaps the reconciliation. There is always the return. And the wound will take you there. It is a blood-trail."
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