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  <description><![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]></description>
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  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
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    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
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    <rating>3</rating>
  <votes>2</votes>
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  <recommended_for><![CDATA[former mouseketeers]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Mon Oct 01 00:00:00 -0700 2007</read_at>
  <date_added>Mon Aug 06 20:51:16 -0700 2007</date_added>
  <date_updated>Thu Dec 17 04:04:22 -0800 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[Okay, Dillard, show us what you got.  She bluffs, she holds, she raises the stakes.  I love her broad scope and her precise portraits.  Also, her self-consciousness is crucial in this - her narrator doesn't take herself too seriously as she addresses serious topics like race prejudice, class discrim...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4184455">more...</a>]]></body>
    
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      <review>
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  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
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    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>2</votes>
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  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Sat Nov 01 00:00:00 -0700 2008</read_at>
  <date_added>Mon Jan 19 08:38:58 -0800 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Mon Jan 19 08:50:47 -0800 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[I chose this one for the Book Discussion group because I was looking for a memoir and I remembered really liking this when I read it 21 years ago on the eve of Gabe's birth.  I liked it just as much the second time around and reading it again now, on the eve of Gabe's transition into adulthood, made...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/43572397">more...</a>]]></body>
    
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      <review>
  <id>42051866</id>
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    <name><![CDATA[William]]></name>
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  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
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  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
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    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>1</votes>
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  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Fri Jan 01 00:00:00 -0800 1988</read_at>
  <date_added>Mon Jan 05 20:44:27 -0800 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Mon Jan 05 20:57:27 -0800 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[What is it like to &quot;grow up?&quot; How thrilling and disconcerting is it to discover our distinctness from our parents? What do we do with freedom as found in a bicycle? What changes when we discover boys (or girls)?<br/><br/>Annie remembers, and helps you remember, too. Some of her memories ...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/42051866">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/42051866]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/42051866]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>45964749</id>
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    <id>1320345</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Sally]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[The United States]]></location>
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  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
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  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
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  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>4</rating>
  <votes>1</votes>
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  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Mon Feb 23 00:00:00 -0800 2009</read_at>
  <date_added>Tue Feb 10 14:28:15 -0800 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Mon Feb 23 07:02:34 -0800 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[This book was really delightful; a memoir that sort of takes me back to my own childhood, because of growing up in the same time period. I loved Annie's creative imagination, and the activities that occupied her days. I laughed a lot and loved looking at life through her eyes. It was a fun read. Tha...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/45964749">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/45964749]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/45964749]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>33035108</id>
    <user>
    <id>561310</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Mark]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[The United States]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/561310-mark]]></link>
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  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
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  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
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  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>1</votes>
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  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
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  <read_at>Mon Oct 06 00:00:00 -0700 2008</read_at>
  <date_added>Tue Sep 16 15:49:25 -0700 2008</date_added>
  <date_updated>Mon Oct 06 17:17:57 -0700 2008</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[A keenly and humorously observed account of growing up (or waking up).  The book is as quotable as a transcendentalist work, but as full of wonder as any blessed childhood. Confused adolescence tangles with the &quot;thought that joy was a childish condition that had forever departed,&quot; but the ...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/33035108">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/33035108]]></url>
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</review>
      <review>
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    <name><![CDATA[Sarah]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Pittsburgh, PA]]></location>
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    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
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    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>5</rating>
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  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Thu Aug 21 00:00:00 -0700 2008</read_at>
  <date_added>Tue Jul 15 17:26:07 -0700 2008</date_added>
  <date_updated>Thu Aug 21 21:21:26 -0700 2008</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[I always love a writer who has a wonderful handle on prose and detail. That's what I like about her. I'd actually read her <em>The Writing Life</em> and adored her suggestions and advice. I picked this one up because she was born and raised in Pittsburgh. Her memories, the poignancy and specificity of her ob...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/27364997">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/27364997]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/27364997]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>56069248</id>
    <user>
    <id>975706</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Annie]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Chicago, IL]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/975706-annie]]></link>
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    <book>
  <id type="integer">12528</id>
  <isbn>0060915188</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060915186</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">177</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397m/12528.jpg</image_url>
  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397s/12528.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12528.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>3</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
  <shelves>
        <shelf name="read" />
          </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Fri May 01 00:00:00 -0700 2009</read_at>
  <date_added>Thu May 14 10:54:49 -0700 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Thu May 14 13:02:04 -0700 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[I believe I read some of Dillard's Pilgram at Tinker Creek in an American Studies class, but I don't really recall what I thought of her or that book. I saw this one at Powells and was intrigued by the Pittsburgh setting since my mom grew up there around the same time (just a few years later). Anywa...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/56069248">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/56069248]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/56069248]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>5514747</id>
    <user>
    <id>281984</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Nina K.]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Brooklyn, NY]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/281984-nina-k]]></link>
    <image_url><![CDATA[http://photo.goodreads.com/users/1195533162p3/281984.jpg]]></image_url>
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    <book>
  <id type="integer">12528</id>
  <isbn>0060915188</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060915186</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">177</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397m/12528.jpg</image_url>
  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397s/12528.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12528.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>4</rating>
  <votes>1</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
  <shelves>
        <shelf name="read" />
            <shelf name="autobiographical" />
      </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[anyone who feels a little dead inside (or never did)]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Sat Sep 01 00:00:00 -0700 2007</read_at>
  <date_added>Sat Sep 01 22:00:17 -0700 2007</date_added>
  <date_updated>Thu Dec 17 08:21:26 -0800 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[Exhilarating journey through childhood experience, with some of the best writing on the nature of consciousness I've seen since Proust. But her mother steals the show - based on the passages about her, I'd consider her my hero. Thanks to GGP for the recommendation.<br/>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5514747]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5514747]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>50443777</id>
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    <id>1279767</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Nita]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Columbus, OH]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/1279767-nita]]></link>
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    <book>
  <id type="integer">12528</id>
  <isbn>0060915188</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060915186</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">177</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397m/12528.jpg</image_url>
  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397s/12528.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12528.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
  <shelves>
        <shelf name="read" />
            <shelf name="memoir" />
      </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Tue Jan 01 00:00:00 -0800 2002</read_at>
  <date_added>Wed Mar 25 15:30:42 -0700 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Wed Mar 25 15:30:42 -0700 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[I wish I'd done this review when I read the book and I wish I remember when I read the book. Here's what I remember:<br/><br/>The way she took an image and strung it through the book. We'd read about something in one section and then later it would pop back up and remind us of the whole image that...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/50443777">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/50443777]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/50443777]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>48497426</id>
    <user>
    <id>1239114</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Betsy]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[The United States]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/1239114-betsy]]></link>
    <image_url><![CDATA[http://photo.goodreads.com/users/1229283541p3/1239114.jpg]]></image_url>
    <small_image_url><![CDATA[http://photo.goodreads.com/users/1229283541p2/1239114.jpg]]></small_image_url>
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    <book>
  <id type="integer">12528</id>
  <isbn>0060915188</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060915186</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">177</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397m/12528.jpg</image_url>
  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397s/12528.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12528.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
  <shelves>
        <shelf name="read" />
            <shelf name="nature-writing" />
      </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Mon Mar 16 00:00:00 -0700 2009</read_at>
  <date_added>Sat Mar 07 07:03:14 -0800 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Mon Mar 16 17:52:42 -0700 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[&quot;Living, you stand under a waterfall. You leave the sleeping shore deliberately; you shed your dusty clothes, pick your barefoot way over the high, slippery rocks, hold your breath, choose your footing, and step into the waterfall. The hard water pelts your skull, bangs in bits on your shoulder...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/48497426">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/48497426]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/48497426]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>73645804</id>
    <user>
    <id>91802</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Julie]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Pittsburgh, PA]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/91802-julie]]></link>
    <image_url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/images/nophoto-F-111x148.jpg]]></image_url>
    <small_image_url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/images/nophoto-F-50x66.jpg]]></small_image_url>
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    <book>
  <id type="integer">1463379</id>
  <isbn>0060158344</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060158347</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">6</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1183867592m/1463379.jpg</image_url>
  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1183867592s/1463379.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1463379.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>4</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
  <shelves>
        <shelf name="read" />
            <shelf name="own" />
      </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[Annie Dillard fans, Pittsburgh fans, memoir fans]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[Kathi Nacca]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Thu May 01 00:00:00 -0700 1997</read_at>
  <date_added>Tue Oct 06 12:06:48 -0700 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Tue Oct 06 12:08:24 -0700 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count>2</read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[Re-read this over the summer. Was looking for a particular quote or section and got so caught up that I ended up eventually going back to the beginning and reading the whole thing.<br/><br/>I first read this as a requirement for Mrs. Nacca's &quot;20 minute speech&quot; about a particular author. ...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/73645804">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/73645804]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/73645804]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>74607769</id>
    <user>
    <id>1420690</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Danise]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Brooklyn, NY]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/1420690-danise-malqui]]></link>
    <image_url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/images/nophoto-F-111x148.jpg]]></image_url>
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    <book>
  <id type="integer">12528</id>
  <isbn>0060915188</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060915186</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">177</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397m/12528.jpg</image_url>
  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397s/12528.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12528.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
  <shelves>
        <shelf name="read" />
          </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Tue Oct 20 00:00:00 -0700 2009</read_at>
  <date_added>Thu Oct 15 07:01:40 -0700 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Sun Dec 13 07:00:05 -0800 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[Fun read about a woman's childhood in PIttsburgh.  Each chapter is a vignette of an episode/recollection from her childhood up to late adolescence.  The book starts with topography of Pittsburgh, its rivers, land, and the impact the actual land has on her memory.  We also get some history of old Pit...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/74607769">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/74607769]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/74607769]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>62474173</id>
    <user>
    <id>944698</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Mike]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Sacramento, CA]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/944698-mike]]></link>
    <image_url><![CDATA[http://photo.goodreads.com/users/1204127972p3/944698.jpg]]></image_url>
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    <book>
  <id type="integer">12528</id>
  <isbn>0060915188</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060915186</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">177</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397m/12528.jpg</image_url>
  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397s/12528.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12528.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>4</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
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          </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Wed Aug 26 00:00:00 -0700 2009</read_at>
  <date_added>Tue Jul 07 09:06:24 -0700 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Wed Aug 26 15:48:49 -0700 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[This book is hard to pin down to a rating. On the one hand, Dillard is her exquisite writing self, choosing words like arrows from a quiver. Not one is wasted or is the wrong word. On the other hand, her recollections are often banal and lack a point. On the one hand, we see a character (her) lost i...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/62474173">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/62474173]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/62474173]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>60281082</id>
    <user>
    <id>1655438</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Courtney]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[The United States]]></location>
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  <isbn>0060915188</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060915186</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">177</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397m/12528.jpg</image_url>
  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397s/12528.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12528.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
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  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Mon Aug 10 00:00:00 -0700 2009</read_at>
  <date_added>Fri Jun 19 06:36:56 -0700 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Mon Aug 10 19:32:08 -0700 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[Whenever I come across a book I love this much, it's difficult to find anything to say. Any description I could give, any metaphor I could use, any sad cliched reaction (&quot;Oh that was breathtaking&quot;) sounds pathetic in attempting to somehow convey how brilliant this book was and deserves to ...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/60281082">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/60281082]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/60281082]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>26430772</id>
    <user>
    <id>1297649</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Dunderhead]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Towson, MD]]></location>
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    <book>
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  <isbn>0060915188</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060915186</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">177</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397m/12528.jpg</image_url>
  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397s/12528.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12528.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
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  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at></read_at>
  <date_added>Sun Jul 06 08:37:44 -0700 2008</date_added>
  <date_updated>Sun Jul 06 08:41:26 -0700 2008</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[Like Nabokov's Speak Memory, one of my favorite memoirs and for the same reason.  I can recall not only passages from the book, but how I felt while reading the passage.  Dillard was able to create in the reader the feeliings she had as she lay in bed terrified while watching shadows cross her bedro...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/26430772">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/26430772]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/26430772]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>25742481</id>
    <user>
    <id>1276923</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Renee]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Delta, CO]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/1276923-renee-porter]]></link>
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    <book>
  <id type="integer">12528</id>
  <isbn>0060915188</isbn>
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  <text_reviews_count type="integer">177</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397m/12528.jpg</image_url>
  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397s/12528.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12528.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
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          </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at></read_at>
  <date_added>Sat Jun 28 08:37:12 -0700 2008</date_added>
  <date_updated>Sat Jun 28 08:39:39 -0700 2008</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[Only the luminous writing of someone as gifted as Annie Dillard could render the coal industry town of Pittsburg so charmingly. Dillard captures the pain of growing up. Born into family wealth, she led a privileged childhood among large homes, shady streets, very wealthy grandparents, private school...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/25742481">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/25742481]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/25742481]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>16630390</id>
    <user>
    <id>945556</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Linda]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Colorado Springs, CO]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/945556-linda]]></link>
    <image_url><![CDATA[http://photo.goodreads.com/users/1205981495p3/945556.jpg]]></image_url>
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    <book>
  <id type="integer">12528</id>
  <isbn>0060915188</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060915186</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">177</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397m/12528.jpg</image_url>
  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397s/12528.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12528.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
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        <shelf name="read" />
          </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at></read_at>
  <date_added>Thu Feb 28 13:32:44 -0800 2008</date_added>
  <date_updated>Mon Apr 13 13:54:43 -0700 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[When I first read this book, many years ago, I was filled with  longing for my own childhood and that of my children.  The childhood we did not have.  Somehow, in my mind I felt that my childhood had been incomplete, with parents that did not reciprocate my interests.  Plus, I felt that my parenting...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/16630390">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/16630390]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/16630390]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>15920821</id>
    <user>
    <id>925806</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Amy]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[The United States]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/925806-amy]]></link>
    <image_url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/images/nophoto-F-111x148.jpg]]></image_url>
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    <book>
  <id type="integer">12528</id>
  <isbn>0060915188</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060915186</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">177</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397m/12528.jpg</image_url>
  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397s/12528.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12528.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>3</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
  <shelves>
        <shelf name="read" />
          </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[college students with boring lives. ]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[DeWitt Henry]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Mon Jan 01 00:00:00 -0800 2007</read_at>
  <date_added>Wed Feb 20 13:21:40 -0800 2008</date_added>
  <date_updated>Thu Feb 21 09:52:28 -0800 2008</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[This is the memoir that professors give to aspiring nonfiction writers who have led entirely boring lives and have nothing exciting or ridiculous to share with the world. When they hand over this piece of mind in published form (pointing out that it was indeed, published) normally they include some ...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/15920821">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/15920821]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/15920821]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>44396547</id>
    <user>
    <id>554145</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Mugga]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Cambridge, MA]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/554145-mugga]]></link>
    <image_url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/images/nophoto-F-111x148.jpg]]></image_url>
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  <id type="integer">12528</id>
  <isbn>0060915188</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060915186</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">177</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397m/12528.jpg</image_url>
  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166504397s/12528.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12528.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>4</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
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        <shelf name="read" />
          </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Thu Jan 22 00:00:00 -0800 2009</read_at>
  <date_added>Mon Jan 26 09:19:32 -0800 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Mon Jan 26 09:27:14 -0800 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[Just like actual childhood I like the beginning of this book better than the end. While her white middle-class upbringing in Pittsburgh is different than my own American childhood she relays a sense of wonder that many children of different upbringings can relate to.<br/><br/>I can't remember what e...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/44396547">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/44396547]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/44396547]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>73644516</id>
    <user>
    <id>752108</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Allie]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Brooklyn, NY]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/752108-allie]]></link>
    <image_url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/images/nophoto-F-111x148.jpg]]></image_url>
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  <title>
    <![CDATA[An American Childhood]]>
  </title>
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  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12528.An_American_Childhood</link>
  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1441</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a  snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on  her mother's knuckles, which &quot;didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a  yellowish ridge.&quot; She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or  many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account  of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with  apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination  after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists.  &quot;Everywhere, things snagged me,&quot; she writes. &quot;The visible world  turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world.&quot;  From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was &quot;an  endlessly interesting, swerving path&quot;--and the understanding that &quot;you do  what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself,&quot; not for anyone else's  approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in  <em>An American Childhood</em> merely youthful; &quot;still I break up through the skin  of awareness a thousand times a day,&quot; she writes, &quot;as dolphins burst through  seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
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  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Tue Sep 01 00:00:00 -0700 2009</read_at>
  <date_added>Tue Oct 06 11:56:10 -0700 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Mon Oct 19 08:07:52 -0700 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[&quot;You must take on faith that those severed places cohered, too... You take it faith that the multiform and variously lighted latitudes and longitudes were part of one world, that you didn't drop chopped from house to house, coast to coast, life to life.  But in some once comprehensible way move...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/73644516">more...</a>]]></body>
    
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