By Duff Brenna
“You’re killing me, Duffy,” the mother regularly acknowledged. In his memoir, Murdering the mother, award-winning novelist Duff Brenna elevates the obscene to the chic. he's taking all of the fabrics of problem and abuse in the course of an unsatisfied youth and sculpts it into artwork, into whatever transcendent. it is a heart-rending memoir that exceeds the expectancies one quite often has of a memoir, that's, it reads like a charming novel.
“Brenna’s event is all [t]here, in thorough, felt element; within the embedded discussion; within the scenes more true than reminiscence or invention; within the visionary figuring out of ugly and sympathetic characters; within the whole, self-standing episodes, woven into the chronological circulation. an individual following the landmark achievements of literary memoir needs to research from and have fun this striking book.” –Dewitt Henry, American booklet Review
“No one escapes this international unscathed, yet in Brenna’s case it’s whatever of a miracle, given his upbringing, that this memoir wasn’t written from dying Row. With nice ability, perception, knowledge, introspection, and specially a feeling of humanity and forgiveness, an excellent author transcends the tragic and turns this robust, uncooked, heartfelt tale into the best art.” –James Brown, writer of This River and the la Diaries
“Perhaps the main impressive success of this notable memoir through award-winning novelist Duff Brenna is its humanity. The characters during this book–hell, its nonfiction, they’re now not characters, they’re people!–do hateful, hurtful issues to each other. they're misplaced of their wishes, their aberrations, their desires, their longing–too misplaced to take inventory of the impact in their personal habit upon the folk with whom they proportion their lives and who rely on them, no longer least the kids who're hostages to one of those madness…He isn't really settling previous scores–and god is aware there have been ratings he may perhaps good have desired to settle if he’d had a brain to. yet no, he's exploring–unsparingly, unflinchingly, yet especially relatively, with stability and breathtaking honesty–the humanity of a bunch of individuals born into and regularly making a form of hell within which they thrash round and not using a clue as to the right way to get out.” –Thomas E. Kennedy, writer of within the corporation of Angels and Falling Sideways.
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Extra info for Murdering The Mom: A Memoir
Dad told us we were having something special for dessert—a flaming ice-cream cake. The waiter wheeled out a tray with the cake on it, and the woman with the gloves lit it with a taper. Everyone stopped eating to watch. The flames had a slow, watery movement, rolling up into the air like ribbons. Everyone started clapping, and Dad jumped up and raised the waiter’s hand above his head as if he’d won first prize. A few days later, Mom and Dad went off to the blackjack table and then almost immediately came looking for us.
Then Grandma would make a snide comment about Dad being shiftless. Dad would say something about selfish old crones with more money than they knew what to do with, and soon enough they’d be face-to-face in what amounted to a full-fledged cussing contest. ” Grandma would scream. ” Dad would shout back. ” Dad had the more inventive vocabulary, but Grandma Smith could outshout him; plus, she had the home-court advantage. A time would come when Dad had had enough and he’d tell us kids to get in the car.
Mom, however, told us that the FBI wasn’t really after Dad; he just liked to say they were because it was more fun having the FBI on your tail than bill collectors. We moved around like nomads. We lived in dusty little mining towns in Nevada, Arizona, and California. They were usually nothing but a tiny cluster of sad, sunken shacks, a gas station, a dry-goods store, and a bar or two. They had names like Needles and Bouse, Pie, Goffs, and Why, and they were near places like the Superstition Mountains, the dried-up Soda Lake, and the Old Woman Mountain.