![]() ![]() The first lesson of Kaysen's pilgrimage to her internist and to the gynecologist, who removed a cyst from one of her vaginal glands 20 years ago, is that medicine is an imprecise science limited by incomplete knowledge. With simple, pared-down vocabulary and sentence structure, and liberal use of the f-word, she recounts her saga. as if a little dentist was drilling a little hole in it." She uses the same matter-of-fact tone to detail her efforts to find a cure. as if someone had poured ammonia inside it. No modesty sheets or paper robes obscure Kaysen's graphic descriptions of how her vagina felt, "as if somebody had put a cheese grater in it and scraped. Not just her prose but also her reflections are as stripped as her body on a doctor's examining table. The pity is, she touches on these worthy issues gingerly, cringing from deeper consideration, as if, like her genitals, they are too sensitive to explore fully. Kaysen uses her vagina as the "fulcrom" on which she pivots to consider specific aspects of existence: sexuality, medicine and aging. ![]() I have one, and something went wrong with it."Ĭlearly, "The Camera My Mother Gave Me," Kaysen's memoir about her vaginal pain, is not for the prudish. If it feels something, it is either erotically engaged or ill. The vagina is mostly like a pancreas and feels nothing. ![]() She doesn't disappoint in her forthright opening lines: "If you have a vagina you know that most of the time it is without sensation. After her spare but powerful 1993 memoir, "Girl, Interrupted," about her two years in a mental hospital, we expect boldness from Susanna Kaysen. ![]()
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