Navigation

Love Like Salt: A Memoir

Availability: Out of Stock
ISBN: 9780349007786
AuthorStevenson, Helen
Pub Date02/02/2017
BindingPaperback
Pages304
CountryGBR
Dewey616.372092
Quick overview A beautifully written memoir, in the vein of H is for Hawk and The Last Act of Love, about mothers and daughters, and living the best life you can, even in the shadow of illness.
€10.25

'Did Clara taste salty when I kissed her? She did. She tasted of mermaids, of the sea.' Love Like Salt is a deeply affecting memoir, beautifully and intelligently written. It is about mothers and daughters, music and illness, genes and inheritance, writing and story-telling. It is about creating joy from the hand you've been dealt and following its lead - in this case to rural France, where the author and her family lived for seven years. And back again. 'I had always written, and until the birth of Clara I wrote for a living. Once I knew the Cystic Fibrosis gene had unfolded itself in our daughter's body, like a paper flower meeting water, I felt that to write, even if I had had time, or been able, would have been to squander a kind of power which was needed for tending and nurturing. Every moment became a moment in which I protected my baby. Some of it I did in secret, like a madwoman muttering spells. I thought of her as a candle, cupping my hand around her.

*
*
*
Product description

'Did Clara taste salty when I kissed her? She did. She tasted of mermaids, of the sea.' Love Like Salt is a deeply affecting memoir, beautifully and intelligently written. It is about mothers and daughters, music and illness, genes and inheritance, writing and story-telling. It is about creating joy from the hand you've been dealt and following its lead - in this case to rural France, where the author and her family lived for seven years. And back again. 'I had always written, and until the birth of Clara I wrote for a living. Once I knew the Cystic Fibrosis gene had unfolded itself in our daughter's body, like a paper flower meeting water, I felt that to write, even if I had had time, or been able, would have been to squander a kind of power which was needed for tending and nurturing. Every moment became a moment in which I protected my baby. Some of it I did in secret, like a madwoman muttering spells. I thought of her as a candle, cupping my hand around her.