No More Words: A Journal of My Mother, Anne Morrow Lindbergh | 
 agrandir | Auteur: Reeve Lindbergh
Créateur: Reeve Lindbergh
Éditeur: Simon & Schuster
Prix de liste: EUR 8,98
Acheter Neuf: EUR 2,88
Vous épargnez: EUR 6,10 (68%)
Neuf (12) D'occasion (11) de EUR 2,76
Classement parmi les ventes: 229856
Média: Broche
Édition: Reprint
Pages: 176
Poids (kg): 0.4
Dimension (cm): 8.5 x 5.4 x 0.4
ISBN: 0743203143
Code Décimal Dewey: 818.5209
EAN: 9780743203142
ASIN: 0743203143
Date de publication: Octobre 8, 2002
Disponibilité: Expedition sous 1 a 2 jours ouvres
Condition: Like new title, may have small marking on bottom edge (remainder mark) - Ships from Canada by Air Mail - Delivery within 3 weeks - Customer Service only in English.
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| Revues éditoriales:
Amazon.com's Best of 2001
Her daughter's tender account of Anne Morrow Lindbergh's final 22 months is a fitting epitaph for an author who revealed her inner life with an honesty and sensitivity that have inspired generations of readers since Gift from the Sea was first published in 1955. This new volume also makes a fine companion for Under a Wing, Reeve Lindbergh's previous memoir about her parents' complex marriage and her own struggle to grapple with the legacy of her famous father, Charles Lindbergh. Yet it's not necessary to know anything about Anne's writing or Charles's exploits as an aviator to be moved by No More Words, which chronicles a day-to-day drama of worry, guilt, anger, and unexpected joy that will be familiar to anyone who has cared for an elderly, ailing parent. Drawing on a diary she kept from the time her mother came to live with her in May 1999 until Anne's death at age 94 in February 2001, Reeve Lindbergh deals first and foremost with her shock that her literate, articulate mother no longer had much use for words. "From the beginning of my life," she writes, "everything I understood was made plain to me in her language.... at each moment of my need she spoke the words I needed." But after a series of strokes, Anne spoke less and less, and not everything she said made sense. Reeve had to find meaning for herself; she had to accept her mother's increasing remoteness and take pleasure from the moments when Anne seemed to come back to her. She traces that process in spare, eloquent prose complemented by excerpts from her mother's works: "It was very important to me that her writing voice, too, should be heard," Reeve states. "The truth about this book is that it is not mine but ours." --Wendy Smith
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