A Woman of Her Time: Memories of My Mother [Paperback] Dupr�, Louise

Product Description In this memoir, the distinguished feminist author and poet Louise Dupré conjures up the tragedies and joys of her mother's life--and does so not only in the personal context of the family but as a woman of her time in the dramatically changing backdrop of Quebec before, during, and after the heady days of the Quiet Revolution. A compelling read that will expand your understanding of the complexity of Quebec society over the past century, as well as your appreciation of the great, wise, and compassionate Louise Dupré. About the Author Louise Dupré has published twenty books, which received many awards. Plus haut que les flammes (Beyond the flames) and La main hantée (The Haunted Hand) both won the Governor General's Award for poetry. Her play Tout comme elle, staged by Brigitte Haentjens, was produced in French in Montreal and in English in Toronto during the Luminato Festival in 2011. Many of her books have been translated in English or in other languages. Louise Dupré is member of the Academy of Letters of Quebec and of the Royal Society of Canada. In December 2014, she was appointed to the Order of Canada for her contributions to Quebec literature as a poet, novelist, playwright, essayist and professor. She lives in Montreal. Winner of both the Canada Council Translation Prize and the John Glassco Translation Prize, Liedewy Hawke has been nominated four times for the Governor General's Literary Award for Translation (French to English) and is a recent winner, with author Lise Dion, of the White Pine Non-Fiction Award. One of her translations, republished in the U.K., was featured on the BBC Radio 2 Book Club, and she has also translated works by prominent Dutch and Flemish authors as well as three previous works by Louise Dupré. She lives in Toronto. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. I look at my mother in her bed. She is white, as white as the sheet. She has just died, and I don't believe it. The nurse beside me doesn't either. Only an hour ago he told me about a protocol to be followed soon, during the stage of respiratory distress. "Distress," the word hit me like a punch. She may have heard while she slept, she may have decided to leave us before. I am relieved. That is how I feel while I look at my mother, her face peaceful now, still warm, as though she were lost in a happy dream. In the evening, pain pounced on her like an animal. It began to devour her insides. I asked the nurse to call the doctor. He agreed to increase the dose of morphineone doesn't let a ninety-seven-year-old woman die in agony. She finally dozed off. Standing at her bedside, I wept over her, I wept over the billions of living beings, humans of all races, animals of all species, who have died, since the beginning of time, after much suffering. Who is this God who is supposed to be infinitely good and kind? I stroke my mother's face. You should talk to someone who has just died, I have heard. Consciousness isn't like the heart, which stops all at once. It slowly fades. I don't know if there is any foundation to this belief, but I talk to my mother, I tell her I love her. It's easier for me than when she was alive, she never liked great emotional outpourings. Except these past weeks. She couldn't control her feelings as well, she smiled when I hugged her, she let herself be tucked in at night, at bedtime. I am waiting for my two brothers. They shouldn't be long. I woke them up a few minutes ago. I didn't need to explain. The ringing of the telephone was enough. The nurse asks me if he should rearrange my mother in the bed. No, no staging. She should remain just as she is. My brothers should see her as I saw her. He leaves, and the room is silent again. I can finally think about my mother, think about her death. For a long time, I imagined a theatrical scenario: she looks at me, I hold her hand, and she is fully conscious when she takes her last breath. I would never have thought death could be s