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    <name><![CDATA[Jessica]]></name>
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  <id type="integer">589477</id>
  <isbn>0316285269</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780316569323</isbn13>
  <ratings_count type="integer">657</ratings_count>
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  <title>White Oleander</title>
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  <name>Janet Fitch</name>
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    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>27</votes>
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  <date_added>Fri Feb 15 13:05:04 -0800 2008</date_added>
  <date_updated>Sat Feb 16 10:40:12 -0800 2008</date_updated>
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    <body><![CDATA[First, a preface: this is the kind of novel that Heartbreakingly Postmodern Critics will turn their noses at since it has Earnest Feelings, Tons of Estrogen, a Plot, and Totally Non-Ironic and Non-Hip Bildungsroman elements. As if to add salt to these wounds, <em>Oleander</em> was chosen for <strong>Oprah's Motherfucking Book Club</strong>. Lord! I should turn in my Literacy Card now for liking this codswallop! <br/><br/>Thankfully, I don't give a fuck. <br/><br/>Oprah endorsements aside, Fitch's debut novel artfully transposes mother/daughter psychodrama on to a disconnected, alienated 21st century American urban landscape. Our title character, Astrid Magnussen, becomes a nomad-cum-foster child after her mother Ingrid murders a jilted lover. The premise is pure pulp, but Fitch takes it farther with her executions -- her deft exploration of Astrid's inner world is phenomenal. Ingrid, Astrid's black widow bitch of a mother, may not be <em>your</em> ma, but any 21st century daughter will empathize with Astrid as she carves her own identity sans Mom against a cynical modern canvas. But aye, there's the rub -- even with Ingrid away, Astrid still cannot escape her presence. It's so deliciously Freudian I want to read this novel on a <em>chaise longue</em>. <br/><br/>It helps that Fitch's prose is as smooth and heady as a silk handkerchief bathed in Shalimar. If you want text that goes down like a Lindt truffle's liquid center, Fitch is your girl.  ]]></body>
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