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Maggie O'Farrell

I Am, I Am, I Am: Seventeen Brushes With Death

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«I Am I Am I Am is a gripping and glorious investigation of death that leaves the reader feeling breathless, grateful, and fully alive. Maggie O’Farrell is a miracle in every sense. I will never forget this book.»—Ann PatchettAn extraordinary memoir—told entirely in near-death experiences—from one of Britain's best-selling novelists, for fans of Wild, When Breath Becomes Air, and The Year of Magical Thinking.We are never closer to life than when we brush up against the possibility of death.I Am, I Am, I Am is Maggie O'Farrell's astonishing memoir of the near-death experiences that have punctuated and defined her life. The childhood illness that left her bedridden for a year, which she was not expected to survive. A teenage yearning to escape that nearly ended in disaster. An encounter with a disturbed man on a remote path. And, most terrifying of all, an ongoing, daily struggle to protect her daughter--for whom this book was written--from a condition that leaves her unimaginably vulnerable to life's myriad dangers.Seventeen discrete encounters with Maggie at different ages, in different locations, reveal a whole life in a series of tense, visceral snapshots. In taut prose that vibrates with electricity and restrained emotion, O'Farrell captures the perils running just beneath the surface, and illuminates the preciousness, beauty, and mysteries of life itself.
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  • Sandra Viviana Chisaca Leivahar citeretfor 2 år siden
    I have never found it difficult to abandon a group, to go against the alpha male or female. I have never much cared for gangs, for social tribes, for fitting in. I have known since I was very young that the in-crowd isn’t my crowd; they are not my people.
  • Sandra Viviana Chisaca Leivahar citeretfor 2 år siden
    Something of its liminal nature, its space between land and sea, seems to draw them, especially at night.
  • Nathanielhar citeretfor 3 år siden
    The doctor there will ask me what medication I was given and, when I tell her, she’ll blanch.

    “What?” I will say. “What’s wrong?”

    “Those are only used here for…” She stops her-self.

    “For what?” I ask.

    “Well…” she frowns at her screen “…horses.”

    I stare at her. Then I laugh.

    The doctor shrugs. “They worked, I guess. I mean, you’re still here.”
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