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    <user>
    <id>1280437</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Sarah]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Pittsburgh, PA]]></location>
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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>
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  <average_rating>3.98</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>1370</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;]]>
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    <author>
    <id>5209</id>
        <name><![CDATA[Annie Dillard]]></name>
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    <average_rating>4.00</average_rating>
    <ratings_count>11558</ratings_count>
    <text_reviews_count>1903</text_reviews_count>
  </author>
  </authors>  <published>1987</published>
</book>

    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>1</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
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        <shelf name="read" />
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        <shelf name="memoir" />
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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>
    
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