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Which seems to have been forgotten. In Civil War epics they save it for the knock-out blow, after the nation torn asunder, after the , dead. As if it were something unnatural like-I don't know-a dog with a plastic bag cleaning up after his owner. Whereas I always wonder why you'd want to murder a man who wasn't your brother. When people in my family talk about brothers and sisters, they usually talk about parents. There are reasons that this is so.
It also appears to be so in every other family I know. Adult children are like islands in a coral atoll, anchored to the sea bed in their unchanging relationship to each other as consequence of another relationship with a once brooding volcanic island now sunk beneath the waves, or moved to Florida. I am sure there are families in which relationships forged among siblings evolve to the point that parents no longer matter. I have just never met any of those people. For most people, it seems, a lifetime isn't long enough to stop talking about your parents.
And, of course, when we talk about our parents, we talk about love. And when we talk about love, we talk about need. My brother, Fred, wasn't born until I was eight, and so my earliest wishes were for the painful death of my older sister. And boy did I ever wish on a star for that happy eventuality. But when Fred did arrive, the little nipper came along nicely in my disregard. We lived in Rome and I was in love with my mother. I didn't speak Italian and so I wasn't allowed outside alone on the streets. So I moped around inside the palazzo we'd rented, while my own mother took this naked stranger into bed with her.
I saw it happening. Not the sort of image to excite brotherly love. But maybe you all don't feel that way about your brothers. Maybe I need to put my life into context. Sometimes, of course, I remember my childhood as a splendid magical time.
I didn't speak Italian either. At the time I lived in Italy, I didn't speak at all. I still don't speak Italian, although I am stuck with Federico. When asked repeatedly why they named me Federico, my parents would reply that there is no "K" in Italian and hence no Frederick. Okay, the Italians may not use K much, but they are a cosmopolitan people with the Germans just across the border.
A perfunctory glance at any Italian keyboard there are a number of versions will reveal the presence of "K": My parents also told me they lost my birth certificate. I am still wondering about that. I had two different childhoods. The two I lived and the one I remember. The one I remember teeters back and forth between a very heaven and a very hell. In the heavenly childhood, Muzzy and Dazzy were always in love.
Muzzy left a postcard under my pillow at night that had a penny scotch-taped to it and the words, "Good morning, good boy.
When awaken in the hellish childhood, my bed is wet. And while in first grade at the Todd Elementary School, I suffered from what, years later, a psychiatrist told me was called "a shy bladder. Then I'd spend a couple of hours hopping around. Then I'd pee in my pants and spend a damp afternoon failing to learn how to read.
No one can rival my bed-wetting stories. Perhaps there really is something to this genetics stuff. Ben and I share certain other physical traits. When you see those murals of human development "the ascent of man" with the monkey on the left and the "modern" guy on the right, we resemble the figure just right of center: In some versions we get a club, which is a comfort. I can imagine potty training wasn't a high priority for Neanderthals. Do we drink so much coffee now to show that we can? My brother and sister have always maintained that my parents loved me best.
Brothers: 26 Stories of Love and Rivalry [Andrew Blauner, Frank McCourt] on donnsboatshop.com *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. The next best thing to not. Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. This fine collection of essays and short fiction play Brothers: 26 Stories of Love and Rivalry Kindle Edition. by.
I have assumed this was their way of saying that they didn't get enough parental love. There were two possible culprits for this tragic state of affairs: The "love hog" hypothesis was easier for my siblings to deal with. If I-always inclined to overeat-had somehow sucked all the available parental love out of the family, then any deficiency in the amount of love they received could be blamed on me.
The hypothesis is implausible, but since the only people who were interested my brother and sister had some reason in believing it, implausibility was no impediment. I know people who may actually have been love hogs, or at least they show signs of having received an overabundance of parental love.
They were convinced by the time they were thirteen that they deserved to be president, commissioner of baseball why does everyone want to be commissioner of baseball? When I tell these people that their academic labors are unlikely to lead to success, they know I cannot be telling the truth. They know that my recitation of their apparent limitations must be part of a monstrous conspiracy. Their mother and father knew best and told them they were perfect. For better or worse, I am not one of these people. Generally, I only trust people who criticize me. Talk about unconditional parental love makes me edgy.
I don't know if it's the shiny tricycle I never had or whether its existence seems a delusion. Much as I hate to agree with my dastardly brother, I've always known that he wasn't the fabled love hog. Certainly Fred was brandished in front of me as an example of every sort of achievement, and my mother's house is festooned with pictures of himself and his children. While there seem to be no pictures of my own comely children. It's much easier to have passionate feelings about people who aren't around. It takes much less time and involves fewer presents.
People who aren't around rarely fail to meet expectations.
They rarely dash your hopes. They have dramatically fewer opportunities to lie to you. Casablanca is really a movie about two people who discover over just two days that their legendary passion will not survive their being together. My father took the need for distance a step further. He was always falling in love with strangers. He liked novelty in his relationships.
He was a storyteller, and he was fond of people, when he'd just started to make up the story about them, before they'd tangled the plot line with their petty concerns and multiple failings. Blake Bailey prefaces his excellent new biography of my father, with this quote from William Maxwell, a friend and editor: The world's very sentimental these days about storytellers. Frank Capra was a great storyteller. But so was Adolph Hitler. Remember that his Reich was going to last 1, years? Story- tellers make us care about the world. They make the world dramatic. Since my father was a storyteller, I was rarely an ordinary child.
Sometimes I was a disaster, sometimes-although rarely-I was a success. It was always interesting. I find myself in the middle of the thing that storytellers do. My brother, Ben, is, by any standard, an accomplished and successful person. During our short visit he took me to the farmers market where he had to judiciously divide his conversational time between the mayor, prominent international historians, and beautiful women. James Bond could not have done better. He actually has New York Marathon Medals hanging off every surface in his kitchen he runs the thing every year: He even owns a Vespa.
He has two wonderful children and a magnificent and understanding wife. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of modern fiction and modern film. He has many published books to his name; he writes about truth and love. I, on the other hand, write about section i of the National Forest Management Act of The image of himself as a love-starved urchin serves some purpose. I will have to leave it to you, our reader, to figure out what that purpose is. When I was the favorite, my father would tell me how disappointed he was in my brother. My brother had difficulty learning to ride a bicycle.
They've been throughthe trenches together and shed the same blood. Who else but abrother can understand that? Acompelling read that sheds new light on a relationship that is asold as the Bible, yet often overlooked. Anaccomplished paean to brotherly love. Would you like to tell us about a lower price? If you are a seller for this product, would you like to suggest updates through seller support? Learn more about Amazon Prime. Read more Read less.
From the Back Cover "These poignant stories spread out like blood from a gash Jossey-Bass; 1 edition April 19, Language: Related Video Shorts 0 Upload your video. Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a customer review. There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later.
You don't even have to be a guy, or have a brother to enjoy this book about the complex relationships among brothers -- some of whom you have either read about in the news, or whose works you have read. One person found this helpful. If you have siblings, you will feel the trueness of these stories.
My heart ached for many of the brothers featured and laughed out loud literally reading other stories. This was a gift for my brother, but I started to read it, and then told him I had to finish it before giving it to him.
This is a nice idea for a collection, allowing for a great range of excellent content and engaging voices. If that is the particular piece you are seeking since it does not appear to be in print elsewhere , use the search feature to preview it to be sure you won't be disappointed.
Was mostly interested in David Kaczynski's story about turning in his brother. The E-mail Address es you entered is are not in a valid format. He has two wonderful children and a magnificent and understanding wife. With h "The next best thing to not having a brother as I do not is to have Brothers. Please enter your name. Then I'd spend a couple of hours hopping around.
Moving and refreshing narratives by multiple male authors who are talented and accomplished in many fields, and who have had mixed or tension filled relationships with their brothers. The writing is surprisingly robust and encompasses a wide range of emotional experiences. See all 4 reviews.
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