By Alison Weaver
Alison Weaver's privileged upbringing concealed the darker undertones of her early life till her mom and dad shipped her away, at fifteen, to the cultish Cascade college, warping her belief of truth. Upon commencement, set adrift in New York's East Village within the Nineteen Nineties, her existence begun a downward spiral marked by means of needles and late-night events. Stumbling into loose fall and mingling with fears of dying, she used to be compelled to stand her darkness. this is Weaver's considerate exploration of what it skill to struggle for identification and equilibrium.
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Additional resources for Gone to the Crazies: A Memoir
The man who ordered twelve Malpeque oysters for lunch every day and drizzled them in minuet sauce. The man who loved oeufs à la neige and was affable to anyone he encountered yet subtly pragmatic in his dealings, always thinking and watching for the next opportunity to present itself. 34 gone to the crazies In Nevada, he was the rancher. The man who, after purchasing his ﬁrst ranch, became obsessed with farming and cattle and manically bought ranch after ranch across California and Nevada and Montana.
I listened attentively, as I always did when he spoke. Perhaps I knew a time would come when one-word answers were all anyone could get out of him. After we’d ﬁnished all we could eat of the gigantic bowl, he quieted and stared down at the deﬂated whipped cream and melted, soupy chocolate. “That’s one thing that will never let us down,” my father said. ” I said. ” “Pretty badly,” I said. ” He lifted his head and looked me in the eye. “I’m too old for a divorce, Al,” he said. ” “I won’t, Dad,” I told him.
I watch the rich. I watch them play the game. I watch them trot out their fake smiles. I watch them when I visit my mother in her uptown apartment. I watch them walk down Fifth Avenue past spotless windows full of clothing pressed in perfect folds, gathered emptily around sculpted mannequins. I watch them climb the silver ladder, step by step, as pieces of themselves break away from their limbs, as they become nothing more than expensive clothes hanging off bodies without souls, trying to be loud and smell sweetly and shine brightly, but never amounting to anything at all.
Gone to the Crazies: A Memoir by Alison Weaver