Let's Take the Long Way Home: A Memoir of Friendship by Gail Caldwell

By Gail Caldwell

“It’s an previous, previous tale: I had a chum and we shared every thing, after which she died and so we shared that, too.”
 
So starts this pretty memoir through Pulitzer Prize winner Gail Caldwell, a testomony to the ability of friendship, a narrative of ways a unprecedented bond among ladies can remove darkness from the loneliest, funniest, toughest moments in existence, together with the ultimate and supreme challenge.

They met over their canine. either writers, Gail Caldwell and Caroline Knapp, writer of Drinking: A Love Story, turned top neighbors, conversing approximately every little thing from their shared background of a fight with alcohol, to their relationships with males and co-workers, to their love of books. They walked the woods of latest England and rowed at the Charles River, and the miles they logged on land and water grew to become a degree of the inner flooring they lined. From disparate backgrounds yet with impressive emotional similarities, those inner most, fiercely self-reliant ladies created an attachment extra profound than both of them may perhaps ever have foreseen. 

The friendship helped them outline the standard moments of existence because the ones worthy cherishing. Then, a number of years into this extraordinary connection, Knapp used to be clinically determined with terminal lung cancer.

With her signature beautiful prose, Caldwell mines the inner most degrees of devotion and grief during this relocating memoir approximately treasuring and wasting a ally. Let’s Take the good way Home is a party of lifestyles and of the variations that come from intimate connection—and it affirms, once more, why Gail Caldwell is famous as certainly one of our bravest and so much sincere literary voices.

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Extra resources for Let's Take the Long Way Home: A Memoir of Friendship

Sample text

I would swim the ponds during the day and read on the screened-in porch until twilight, and I still remember sitting there, Clemmie sleeping next to me, while I read the book until dusk turned to pitch black outside. It was the season of the first round of celebrity addiction memoirs, when Pete Hamill and a few others had come out with new tough-guy versions of Under the Volcano. Until now, though, most of the drinking stories had belonged to a boys’ club. That night in Truro, I read Caroline’s book straight through.

There was a long pause. ” she had asked shyly, as though the old lace-making craft were something of great importance, and so that too became part of the private lexicon—“tatting” was the code word for the time wasters we, and probably everyone else, engaged in. These were the sort of rag-and-bone markers that came flying back to me, in a high wind of anguish, when she was dying: I remember trying to explain the tatting center to someone who knew us, then realizing how absurd it sounded, and breaking down.

Still, I’d always been comfortable in my own company, sometimes to the displeasure of friends or romantic partners. My last love interest of any importance had ended, badly, a few years earlier. One of my closest friends from the past decade, an artist and filmmaker, had just left Cambridge for New York. I had a number of old and solid friendships, male and female both, but these days most of the local ones belonged in the second circle of intimacy—the people you’d call when you were hit by a bus, but not necessarily if you’d merely sprained an ankle.

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