Now for the most confronting book I’ve ever read.
I don’t restrict my reading to ‘warm and fuzzy’ books. Whilst I don’t seek out horror, true crime or books from similar genres I am prepared to read the less palatable, provided it’s in context (although, that said, there was a scene in Brett Easton Ellis’s Imperial Bedrooms that may have scarred me for life). Reading should be enjoyable but it should also be sometimes challenging – unfortunately those things aren’t always synonymous. I finished Tiger, Tiger by Margaux Fragoso two weeks ago and I am still trying to order my feelings about the book.
Tiger, Tiger is a memoir. The jacket blurb reads –
“I still think about Peter, the man I loved most in the world, all the time.
At two in the afternoon, when he would come and pick me up and take me for rides; at five, when I would read to him, head on his chest; in the despair at seven p.m., when he would hold me and rub my belly for an hour; in the despair again at nine p.m. when we would go for a night ride, down to the Royal Cliffs Diner in Englewood Cliffs where I would buy a cup of coffee with precisely seven sugars and a lot of cream. We were friends, soul mates and lovers.
I was seven. He was fifty-one. They were the happiest days of my life.” Continue reading