Roiphe brilliantly dramatizes 1940s-1950s male-female relationships in her sad but loving remembrance of her parents' troubled marriage, held together by convention and money. Their clashes dwarfed the war in Europe and scarred her fragile, talented brother for life. Her novelist's pen evokes a New York where trains pulse beneath stately upper Park Avenue, and assimilated Jewish families inhabit a world of gloved doormen, Mah Jong, music tutors, and spartan governesses. Yet like Mary Karr's The Liars' Club, this eloquent and sensitive memoir transcends its setting and will resonate in the heart of anyone who has felt the turmoil it depicts. We are stunned and thrilled as Roiphe finally escapes the icy grip of 1185 Park Avenue, finding her own redemption as a writer and the mother of a happy family.

Amazon.com Review
"He married her because she was rich" is the author's bleak assessment of her handsome, unfaithful father's relationship with her unhappy, insecure mother. Anne Roiphe describes with equally brutal candor a childhood largely spent with the governess until she was old enough to mix her mother's drinks, light cigarettes, and listen to complaints about her father. In this grim environment, Roiphe and her sickly younger brother did not band together so much as coexist in mutual misery. She seems to find redemption in the trio of deaths that close the book. Her parents died from cancer; her father disinherited his children in favor of his second wife. Her brother, a doctor infected with AIDS from cutting himself in his lab, ordered a funeral without any words: "The God who would do this to him deserved only silence." So why read this angst fest? Because Roiphe is just as honest about her own efforts to escape her gilded cage on New York's Upper East Side, and because she captures the social and historical particulars of wealthy Jewish American life from the 1930s on in the same richly textured detail she brought to feminist classics like Up the Sandbox. "I am a writer, and burning bridges behind me is part of the cost of the work," she comments. She burns them with sorrowful panache in this chilling, engrossing memoir. --Wendy Smith