![]() I was hoarse for the first six weeks after Pammy died and my romance ended, from shouting in the car and crying, and I had blisters on the palm of one hand from hitting the bed with my tennis racket, bellowing in pain and anger.įew of us would be so unrestrained, possibly because few of us could so accurately identify-or express-the depth of our feelings. One day it is heavy and underwater, and the next day it spins and stops at loud and rageful, and the next day at wounded keening, and the next day at numbness, silence. Grief, as I read somewhere once, is a lazy Susan. She is devastated, of course, as she writes: ![]() ![]() In “Ladders,” for example, we learn that within a few weeks of one another, Lamott has broken up with a man she loves and has lost Pammy, a friend of 20 years, to breast cancer. In Small Victories: Spotting Improbable Moments of Grace, Lamott gives us all three in each of her 24 essays. Whatever the sequence of events, you know it’s likely there will be shattered emotions, gut-wrenching pain, and a river of tears. ![]() Will a wheel fly off into the stands as the car enters the final turn? Will the car hit an oil slick, slide into another junker, and smash into the retaining wall in front of your seat? Or will it get rammed from behind by that tank of a ’64 Chrysler and flip into the evening sky? As a battered ’54 Chevy careens down the track at what seems like 110 mph, your senses spike to full alert. Sitting down to read one of Anne Lamott’s books is like taking a seat in the bleachers at your local county racetrack. ![]()
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