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Susanna Kaysen brings the same unsparing self-examination that characterized Girl, Interrupted to this frank account of the mysterious vaginal ailment from which she suffered. This is an unusual but fascinating and perceptive exploration of body and mind, sexuality and self.
Kaysen's second memoir begins with a description of an ailment that affected her but is rarely mentioned: unexplainable vulvar pain, or vulvodynia. Like Kaysen's Girl, Interrupted, this book takes readers into a world rife with condescending health practitioners, dismissive doctors and mixed medical messages. Throughout, Kaysen refuses to flinch or concede to doctors' suggestions that her so-called medical problem rests solely in her head. By turns funny, angry and wry, the book offers an intimate look at what happens when sexual pleasure becomes impossible. Along the way, it addresses how mind connects to body, and how sex connects to relationships. It is intensely moving, if somewhat unsettling, stuff. Brave and honest, it explores the impact of sexual intercourse on emotional, spiritual and physical well-being.
—Eleanor J. Bader
Publishers Weekly
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. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
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 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A vagina dialogue: pithy, funny, adventurous, sexy, and eye-opening. The conversation is between Kaysen (Girl, Interrupted) and her vagina, which abruptly begins to give her pain instead of the pleasure they have shared so frequently over the years. Kaysen starts on a round of health practitioners, beginning with her comfortable gynecologist and moving on to an alternative medicine practice, a surgeon who specializes in the vulva (he's a "vulvologist"), and her respected internist. She rejects surgery, which involves cutting a nerve that may also dull her sexual pleasure. But she gives a number of other options a try, from Novocain and estrogen creams, which only increase the pain, to baking soda baths and tea soaks, which don't help at all. She researches the most likely diagnosis, but skeptically says no to the no-lettuce diet recommended as a cure, just as refuses Prozac: "My life is terrible," she tells a doctor. "So I should take Prozac and feel better about it, even though it's still terrible." Meanwhile, her live-in boyfriend demands sex of one sort or another on a constant basis and refuses to believe how painful ("like razor blades") even the slightest arousal-let alone intercourse-is for her. It's too much like rape, she frets; he leaves. Friends offer sympathy, advice, and good meals throughout the ordeal. Eventually the pain recedes, but so does all sensation. Does this mean no more sex, she wonders in anguish? For her, sexual conquest was what relationships were all about. Maybe that's what her vagina was trying to tell her. She isn't sure, so she's still listening. (One other unanswered question: What does the title mean? There's no indication here.) Disguised asplain, brown memoir, a voluptuous exploration of sexuality, aging, the failures of modern medicine, attempts at self-knowledge, and the meaning of pain.
From the Publisher
Scary, thought-provoking, and humorous. . . . Kaysen painstakingly constructs her own brilliant vagina monologue.” –Elle
“Hilarious . . . intelligent and deeply felt . . . always interesting and, alas, occasionally heartbreaking.” –The Boston Globe
“Strangely seductive, even entertaining, and frequently funny. . . . When one body part starts sending out a signal that can’t be ignored, you can suddenly find yourself viewing friendships, partnerships, even inanimate objects through a different lens.” –Newsday
“Pithy, funny, adventurous, sexy, and eye-opening. . . . Disguised as plain, brown memoir . . . [The Camera My Mother Gave Me is] a voluptuous exploration of sexuality, aging, the failures of modern medicine, attempts at self-knowledge, and the meaning of pain.” –Kirkus