A House of My Own: Stories from My Life (Vintage International)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
From Chicago to Mexico, the places Sandra Cisneros has lived have provided inspiration for her now-classic works of fiction and poetry. But a house of her own, a place where she could truly take root, has eluded her. In this jigsaw autobiography, made up of essays and images spanning three decades—and including never-before-published work—Cisneros has come home at last. Written with her trademark lyricism, in these signature pieces the acclaimed author of The House on Mango Street shares her transformative memories and reveals her artistic and intellectual influences. Poignant, honest, and deeply moving, A House of My Own is an exuberant celebration of a life lived to the fullest, from one of our most beloved writers.
every member of your public as if they were the guest writer, and not the other way round. This generosity and way of honoring her readers has made me see her not only as a great poet but as a great human being, and this, in my book, is the greatest kind of writer of all. This letter was written while I was guest professor at the University of New Mexico, Albuquerque. March 5, 1991 Dear Ms. Brooks, It is what Winnie-the-Pooh would call a blustery day here. Or what Miss Emily would designate
said nothing, just listened to my classmates, too afraid to speak. The third book, though, left me baffled. I didn’t get it. Maybe I wasn’t as smart as everyone else, I thought, and if I didn’t say anything, maybe no one else would notice. The conversation, I remember, was about the house of memory, the attic, the stairwells, the cellar. Attic? Were we talking about the same house? My family lived upstairs for the most part, because noise traveled down. Stairwells reeked of Pine-Sol from the
today. Must Greta Garbo. Pull an Emily D. Roil like Jean Rhys. Abiquiu myself. Throw a Maria Callas. Shut myself like a shoe. Stand back. Christ almighty. I’m warning. Do not. Keep out. Beware. Help! Honey, this means you. We all need a place to be. To cry without someone asking, “What’s wrong?” To laugh without explaining why. To scratch our butt without saying, “Oh, pardon me.” We need a house to fly. To hear the heart speak. To listen in earnest and then, talk back. When I’m at
the phrase to name objects that are at once funky and glamorous, like a plaster Virgen de Guadalupe statue covered in Swarovski crystals. El Pleito/The Quarrel My friends are highly competitive. After I’d written an intro for the artist Franco Mondini-Ruiz’s book High Pink: Tex-Mex Fairy Tales, Rolando Briseño asked if I’d write something for his upcoming art book Moctezuma’s Table, which would feature his paintings about food. I’m not a writer who can write on assignment, but I said I’d give
Cappuccino, because in my mind he became, from then on, indelibly linked with that cup of coffee we shared together during our mutiny. Señor Kapuściński laughed at his nickname, and when we said goodbye at the week’s end, he promised to send and did indeed send me his poetry. In Polish, for my Polish eye doctor. He apologized and was sorry the book was not yet translated into English for me. He never mentioned his extraordinary body of work, as compact as poetry, in exquisite prose I would