![]() ![]() ![]() There was also irritation, for much of the book was careless. When she wrote about my mother, I felt I was standing outside the door, listening to conversations I had already heard. A phrase about looking out the window above the kitchen sink of our childhood home in Spring Valley, New York, was like chancing upon a yellowing photograph of a place I had once loved. Finding him on those pages, singing or talking to our dogs, was like dreaming. Her descriptions of my father, who died in 1979, were unbearably true. Even when she was alive, I found it difficult to read. As an adult, she wrote about her life, to enormous literary acclaim, in a book called Autobiography Of A Face. Treating it was physically agonising and hugely disfiguring. ![]() As a child, she was diagnosed with a cancer in the bone of her jaw. Her life had been hard, but she had also experienced more joy than many. She had accidentally taken an overdose of heroin. My little sister Lucy Grealy died in New York on December 18 2002, at the age of 39. Nothing so malicious has touched me, but I think of them often, for my own grief has been forced down an unexpected path. That Muslim family were hijacked on their journey. ![]()
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