![]() ![]() Jeanette Winterson was adopted as a baby by a couple who had been hoping for a boy. And so yes, by the time I realised what it was really about and what it was going to do to me, it was definitely far "too late". This book is definitely of the sort that Mrs Winterson feared most: truths that most of us find hard to face, explored in a way that disturb, challenge, upset and inspire. You start it expecting one thing – a wry retake of her working-class gothic upbringing – and come out having been subjected to one of the more harrowing and candid investigations of mid-life breakdown I've ever read. But it also happens to be wonderfully true of this vivid, unpredictable and sometimes mind-rattling memoir. As advertisements for reading go, it's pretty seductive. "The trouble with a book is that you never know what's in it until it's too late," answered the peerless Mrs Winterson. ![]() J eanette Winterson once asked her adoptive mother – stringently immortalised in her first novel Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit – why they couldn't have books in the house. ![]()
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