Table of Contents
PRAISE FOR TWO OR THREE THINGS I KNOW FOR SURE
Captures Allisons raw gifts as a storyteller.... She ponders the uses and limits of fiction in a world where truth can be the most brutal story of all.
The New York Times Book Review
A model memoir, harrowing in its depiction of family truths, however painful ... generous to others and unsparing of the author, and written in simple language that verges toward a kind of rough-hewn poetry.
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
Any time she says, Let me tell you a story, all she has to do is name the time and the place. Ill be there.
Geoffrey Stokes, The Boston Sunday Globe
Her storiesand lifeare a triumph of love over cruelty. Read it aloud and savor the rhythms.
Publishers Weekly
A book of wisdom, a book of medicines.... One feels the vicious, devouring cycle of rage and pain defeated.
Los Angeles Times Book Review
DOROTHY ALLISON is the National Book Award finalist and bestselling author of the novel Bastard Out of Carolina; Cavedweller; Trash; Skin: Talking About Sex, Class and Literature; and The Women Who Hate Me. She lives in northern California.
WITH THE GRACE AND SURENESS THAT ARE THE VERY HALLMARKS OF HER EXQUISITE STYLE, [DOROTHY ALLISON] HAS DONE IT AGAIN ... WITH THIS BEAUTIFUL, PROVOCATIVE, AND PROBING MEMOIR.
NEW YORK NATIVE
Poetic and allusive ... Allison eloquently reveals as much about her art as her past.
Entertainment Weekly
Evocative storytelling ... beautifully written, powerful stuff.
St. Petersburg Times
Unflinching ... sinewed and muscular prose.
Buffalo News
A lyrical meditation on what it is to be young, poor, and female.... At once touching and funny.
City Paper
Beautiful ... a spiritual autobiography that renews the human spirit.... I never want to stop reading this story.
Jennifer Hemler, Philadelphia City Paper
Allison is a literary treasure ... her volume of memories is written in powerful, fiercely beautiful prose.
Etcetera
A rich memoir.... Allison ... tells her sad tales with a lyricism that lifts them into another realm. Let me tell you a story is her refrain. And we do, we let her tell away.
Kirhus Reviews
SHE IS FIRST AND FOREMOST A WRITER WHO HAS TAKEN ON THE DIFFICULT TASK OF BEING HONEST ABOUT HER OWNLIFE ...SHE ENLARGES OUR WORLD.
RALEIGH NEWS AND OBSERVER
A tapestry of remembrances both bright and muted.
Booklist
Her graceful pen has become a tool for mining wisdom from painful experiences.
Santa Rosa Press Democrat
Beautiful, powerful, touching.
In Pittsburgh
Compelling, mesmerizing ... masterfully celebrates her familys indomitable women.
Portland Williamette Week
Allisons unsparing, pungent memoir is at once funny and chilling to the bone.
Greenville State
A powerful, spare, sharply written memoir ... moving.
Greensboro News and Record
Allisons storytelling shifts into an act of profound healing, a survival tool for mending the heart, sending you back into the world strong, ready, and deeply, deeply loved.
The Advocate
Also by the author:
Skin: Talking About Sex, Class and Literature
Bastard Out of Carolina
Cavedweller
Trash
The Women Who Hate Me
For my sisters
TWO OR THREE THINGS I KNOW FOR SURE
LET ME TELL YOU A STORY, I used to whisper to my sisters, hiding with them behind the red-dirt bean hills and row on row of strawberries. My sisters faces were thin and sharp, with high cheekbones and restless eyes, like my mamas face, my aunt Dots, my own. Peasants, thats what we are and always have been. Call us the lower orders, the great unwashed, the working class, the poor, proletariat, trash, lowlife and scum. I can make a story out of it, out of us. Make it pretty or sad, laughable or haunting. Dress it up with legend and aura and romance.
Let me tell you a story, Id begin, and start another one. When we were small, I could catch my sisters the way they caught butterflies, capture their attention and almost make them believe that all I said was true. Let me tell you about the women who ran away. All those legendary women who ran away. Id tell about the witch queens who cooked their enemies in great open pots, the jewels that grow behind the tongues of water moccasins. After a while the deepest satisfaction was in the story itself, greater even than the terror in my sisters faces, the laughter, and, God help us, the hope.
The constant query of my childhood was Where you been? The answer, Nowhere. Neither my stepfather nor my mother believed me. But no punishment could discover another answer. The truth was that I did go nowherenowhere in particular and everywhere imaginable. I walked and told myself stories, walked out of our subdivision and into another, walked all the way to the shopping center and then back. The flush my mama suspected hid an afternoon of shoplifting or vandalism was simple embarrassment, because when I walked, I talkedstorytalked, out loudassuming identities I made up. Sometimes I was myself, arguing loudly as I could never do at home. Sometimes I became people I had seen on television or read about in books, went places Id barely heard of, did things that no one I knew had ever done, particularly things that girls were not supposed to do. In the world as I remade it, nothing was forbidden ; everything was possible.
Ill tell you a story and maybe youll believe me.
Theres a laboratory in the basement of the Greenville County General Hospital, I told my sisters. They take the babies down there. If youre poorfrom the wrong family, the wrong color, the wrong side of townthey mess with you, alter your brain. That was what happened. That was it.
You believe me?
Im a storyteller. Ill work to make you believe me. Throw in some real stuff, change a few details, add the certainty of outrage. I know the use of fiction in a world of hard truth, the way fiction can be a harder piece of truth. The story of what happened, or what did not happen but should havethat story can become a curtain drawn shut, a piece of insulation, a disguise, a razor, a tool that changes every time it is used and sometimes becomes something other than we intended.
The story becomes the thing needed.
Two or three things I know for sure, and one of them is what it means to have no loved version of your life but the one you make.