I used to say I’d be a teacher or a lawyer or a hairdresser when I grew up but even as I said these things, I knew what made me happiest was writing.
I wrote on everything and everywhere. I remember my uncle catching me writing my name in graffiti on the side of a building. (It was not pretty for me when my mother found out.) I wrote on paper bags and my shoes and denim binders. I chalked stories across sidewalks and penciled tiny tales in notebook margins. I loved and still love watching words flower into sentences and sentences blossom into stories.
I also told a lot of stories as a child. Not “Once upon a time” stories but basically, outright lies. I loved lying and getting away with it! There was something about telling the lie-story and seeing your friends’ eyes grow wide with wonder. Of course I got in trouble for lying but I didn’t stop until fifth grade.
That year, I wrote a story and my teacher said “This is really good.” Before that I had written a poem about Martin Luther King that was, I guess, so good no one believed I wrote it. After lots of brouhaha, it was believed finally that I had indeed penned the poem which went on to win me a Scrabble game and local acclaim. So by the time the story rolled around and the words “This is really good” came out of the otherwise down-turned lips of my fifth grade teacher, I was well on my way to understanding that a lie on the page was a whole different animal — one that won you prizes and got surly teachers to smile. A lie on the page meant lots of independent time to create your stories and the freedom to sit hunched over the pages of your notebook without people thinking you were strange.
Lots and lots of books later, I am still surprised when I walk into a bookstore and see my name on a book’s binder. Sometimes, when I’m sitting at my desk for long hours and nothing’s coming to me, I remember my fifth grade teacher, the way her eyes lit up when she said “This is really good.” The way, I — the skinny girl in the back of the classroom who was always getting into trouble for talking or missed homework assignments — sat up a little straighter, folded my hands on the desks, smiled and began to believe in me.
Running into a long-ago friend sets memories from the 1970s in motion for August, transporting her to a time and a place where friendship was everything—until it wasn’t. For August and her girls, sharing confidences as they ambled through neighborhood streets, Brooklyn was a place where they believed that they were beautiful, talented, brilliant—a part of a future that belonged to them.
But beneath the hopeful veneer, there was another Brooklyn, a dangerous place where grown men reached for innocent girls in dark hallways, where ghosts haunted the night, where mothers disappeared. A world where madness was just a sunset away and fathers found hope in religion.
奥古斯特出生在八月的第一天。 夏天这时已近尾声,走到了最后一个时段,余下的温度与热量将在余日里挥霍殆尽。随后,炎炎酷暑在记忆里逐渐褪色,伴随着秋天里的沉静克制而缓慢沉淀。 沉淀下来。 落在记忆的最深处。 然后被遗忘刷上一层薄薄的灰。 等到偶然一个瞬间,再度拾起,...
评分 评分这一篇短小精彩意味深长的小说,这是一个关于成长的故事。吸引我的是腰封那一句“我曾为梦远行,终成回不去的异乡人。” 八岁那年,奥古斯特以为母亲失踪了,随父亲和弟弟从田纳西州搬到布鲁克林,住在一个小公寓的顶层,她一种安慰弟弟,母亲明天就来了。明天,或者下个明天,...
简短却很有力。
评分简短却很有力。
评分2017读的第一本书,没想到一天不到就读完了。Woodson的文笔简洁流畅,读的时候就像听着August有意无意地说着自己的故事。This is memory. Memories about a lost family member, friends, love, femininity, self-growth, religion, self-awakening.
评分简短却很有力。
评分Poetic writing, sad story, unforgettable memory about a Muslim girl in around 1970s' Brooklyn.
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