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My recent conversation with Julie Wilson. The Edwardian Glassco, the naked truth in Memoirs of Montparnasse, thoughts on the James Frey controversy, and Canada's neglected and forgotten literature – you'll find it all here at Canadian Bookshelf.
Today I will think of her as the person to whom I owed everything, not as a woman I loved – and think of my life here before she came, with no one but those two old servants in the twilight of dotage who were so terrified of me. I must have been like a wild animal then, with those fits of rage – screaming, biting, breaking things, rolling on the floor. I remember almost nothing of that time: it seemed to be mostly walking through these ruined gardens and in the woods where I set my ineffectual little traps for birds and rabbits, hoping to catch them alive. How desolate and wild a life! Yet when mother left to live in Paris for good, and Miss Marwood came, I was furious. I thought I would lose me freedom. Freedom! As if it ever mattered to me.Well I lost it certainly – the child's freedom to be lonely, bored, idle, frightened. And I found, quite simply, happiness. A week after she arrived I could sleep without nightmares; and I had stopped stammering: I simply hadn't time! As for my rages, I really think she enjoyed them. as if they offered a challenge to her methods and muscles, to the very strength of her arm.
Busby's biography is meticulously researched and catches many questionable details and variant accounts of events while never losing sight of the overarching structure of his subject's project as an author. That's no small strength when the project includes much playful self-mythologizing, because, however charming Glassco's delight in fabulation and light touch with mere fact may be, it complicates things for biographers.