Forget legendary grandfather, forget silly cover sketch of girl wading into moonlit river, forget the blurb's promise of one 'woman's death-defying battle against the odds': Lorian Hemingway's first novel, about Mississipi-born Eva's despairing search for love (and self-love), transcends most of the cliches of the big-hearted novel in which beautiful women suffer unrelenting pain from alcoholic nympho mothers, transvestite dads, deadbeat marriages, rape, madness, drink, ECT, etc. Despite denials of autobiography, Hemingway has obviously been at least part of the way without losing all her brain cells. Only the preachy ending failed to make me reach for the Kleenex.
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