The Camera My Mother Gave Me

July 30, 2001
Eight years ago, Kaysen's affecting story of her two years in a psychiatric hospital, Girl, Interrupted, helped sparked the memoir craze and later became a Hollywood blockbuster. Now Kaysen, also an accomplished novelist (Asa, As I Knew Him; Far Afield), returns with this thin, disappointing chronicle of what happened when "something went wrong" with her vagina. The terse narrative chronicles her quest to determine the cause of and cure for disabling vaginal pain—vestibulitis, the medical term for a "sore spot" on the wall of her vagina. The most intriguing element is Kaysen's explosive relationship with an unnamed live-in boyfriend who, despite her pain, pressures her to have intercourse: "I want to fuck you, goddammit, he said, lunging at me, pushing his hand between my legs. I jumped out of bed. I was naked... I ran downstairs. All I could think of was to get away from the bed and from him and his fingers. I pressed my back against the wall in the living room and shook, from cold and the remnants of my desire." Later, sans boyfriend, Kaysen reflects—too briefly—on how she's changed as her desire for sex evaporates, concluding, "when eros goes away, life gets dull." Stingy with basic facts—the reader is left wondering how old she is and how she spends her days (writing? teaching?)—the memoir is admirable in its honesty and insights into medicine's limits. (Oct.)Forecast:Already the subject of a
New York Times piece suggesting this "autopathography" may become the target of a backlash against such transgressive confessions, Kaysen's slight memoir will spark some controversy, but don't expect
Girl, Interrupted–level sales.

August 3, 2001
In this follow-up to Girl, Interrupted, Kaysen tackles an even more taboo subject than depression: her vagina. Maintaining the same humor and graphic honesty, she tells of her inconclusive search to diagnose and treat the shooting pains that plague her. Her gynecologist refers her to an herbalist, while her internist sends her to a biofeedback practitioner. She exhausts conventional aids like creams and pills as well as experiments with baking soda and acupuncture. Throughout, she bemoans how controlling, demanding, and unsympathetic her boyfriend is, leading the reader to wonder if her pain really lies in her head. It's as if the book is a form of therapy, allowing the author to dissect the mechanics of her sexuality. Told poetically and without apology, Kaysen's latest once again proves that the power of her work is deeply rooted in her ability to recognize her own emotions and convey them to others. Recommended for all public libraries. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 6/1/01.] Rachel Collins, "Library Journal"

Copyright 2001 Library Journal, LLC Used with permission.

June 1, 2001
After the shattering revelations of Girl, Interrupted, Kaysen is at it again, this time detailing her anguish and medical odyssey after she lost all sexual sensation.

Copyright 2001 School Library Journal, LLC Used with permission.

August 1, 2001
\deflang1033\pard\plain\f3\fs24 Medical memoirs are terrifying, humbling, and inspiring. Maxine Kumin, Linda Hogan, and Susan Antonetta have all written about injuries and torturous maladies and the revelations they engender with surpassing fortitude and lyricism, and now another writer joins the pained but redemptive chorus.Kaysen gets right to it, whether she's reporting retrospectively on her bout with mental illness at age 18 in the acclaimed \plain\f3\fs24" Girl, Interrupted\plain\f3\fs24 (1993), brought powerfully to the screen in an Oscar-wining 1999 production, or writing about another assault from within that forced her to put her life on hold. Her ailment? Excruciating and incessant pain in her vagina. In prose pared down to the essentials and peppered with sharp wit, Kaysen recounts her long, fruitless search for a diagnosis and cure. She is examined and treated unsuccessfully by a gynecologist, an internist, and various alternate health-care practitioners. Drugs and creams are supplied; she is told to soak in tea, baking soda, and oatmeal; and surgery is suggested. In between, she argues with her boyfriend about her inability to have sex and discusses her problems at length with friends. Thoughts on sexuality, love, trust, femininity, age, self-image, and the wisdom of the body radiate out from her pain like rays from the sun, touching her rapt, sympathetic, and often amused readers with the heat and light of her hard-won insights and candor. (Reprinted with permission of Booklist, copyright 2001, American Library Association.)