Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. Neuroscientist and debut novelist Genova mines Add Audible book to your download for just $ Deliver to. the month's book. During the evening we'll talk about the book and enjoy each other's company as well as a nice cuppa' tea and some delicious cake. And you. Still Alice is the first novel written by Dr. Lisa Genova. Dr. Genova holds her PhD in neuro- science from Harvard University and is a columnist for the National.
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STILL ALICE by Lisa Genova - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or She wanted to read every book she could before she could no longer read. In Lisa Genova's extraordinary New York Times bestselling novel, an accomplished woman slowly loses her thoughts and memories to Alzheimer's. at Alzheimer's. The novelist talks about her life and her book,. Still Alice, whose film adaptation recently won actress Julianne Moore an Academy Award® for.
With an OverDrive account, you can save your favorite libraries for at-a-glance information about availability. Find out more about OverDrive accounts. Still Alice was adapted into an Oscar-w We want your feedback! Click here. Still Alice by Lisa Genova ebook. Subjects Fiction Literature.
They always fell into the same battle, and it felt to Alice like trying to knock down a concrete wall with their heads. It was never going to be productive and only resulted in hurting them, causing lasting damage. She wished Lydia could see the love and wisdom in what she wanted for her. She wished she could just reach across the table and hug her daughter, but there were too many dishes, glasses, and years of distance between them.
A sudden urry of activity a few tables away pulled their attention from themselves. Several camera ashes popped, and a small crowd of patrons and waitstaff gathered, all focused on a woman who looked a bit like Lydia. Mom, said Lydia in a tone both embarrassed and superior, perfected at the age of thirteen.
Thats Jennifer Aniston. They ate their dinner and talked only of safe things, like the food and the weather. Alice wanted to discover more about Lydias relationship with Malcolm, but the embers of Lydias emotions still glowed hot, and Alice feared igniting another ght. She paid the bill and they left the restaurant, full but dissatised. Excuse me, maam!
Their waiter caught up to them on the sidewalk. You left this. Alice paused, trying to comprehend how their waiter might come to possess her BlackBerry. She hadnt checked her email or calendar in the restaurant. She felt inside her bag. No BlackBerry. She mustve removed it when she shed her wallet out to pay.
Thank you. Lydia looked at her quizzically, as if she wanted to say something about something other than food or weather, but then didnt. They walked back to her apartment in silence.
Alice waited, suspended in the front hallway, holding the handle of her suitcase. Harvard Magazine lay on the top of a pile of unclaimed mail strewn on the oor in front of her. The clock in the living room ticked and the refrigerator hummed.
A warm, sunny late afternoon at her back, the air inside felt chilly, dim, and stale. She picked up the mail and walked into the kitchen, her suitcase on wheels accompanying her like a loyal pet. Her ight had been delayed, and she was late getting in, even according to the microwave. Hed had a whole day, a whole Saturday, to work. The red voice-mail light on their answering machine stared her down, unblinking.
She checked the refrigerator. No note on the door. Still clutching the handle of her suitcase, she stood in the dark kitchen and watched several minutes advance on the microwave. The disappointed but forgiving voice in her head faded to a whisper as the volume of a more primal one began to build and spread out. She thought about calling him, but the expanding voice rejected the suggestion outright and refused all excuses.
She thought about deciding not to care, but the voice, now seeping down into her body, echoing in her belly, vibrating in each of her ngertips, was too powerful and pervasive to ignore. Why did it bother her so much? He was in the middle of an experiment and couldnt leave it to come home.
Shed certainly been in his shoes innumerable times. This was what they did. This was who they were. The voice called her a stupid fool. She spotted her running shoes on the oor next to the back door. A run would make her feel better. That was what she needed.
Ideally, she ran every day. For many years now, shed treated running like eating or sleeping, as a vital daily necessity, and shed been known to squeeze in a jog at midnight or in the middle of a blinding snowstorm. But shed neglected this basic need over the last several months. Shed been so busy. As she laced her shoes, she told herself she hadnt bothered bringing them with her to California because shed known 19 s t i l l a l i c e 20 she wouldnt have the time.
In truth, shed simply forgotten to pack them. When starting from her house on Poplar Street, she invariably followed the same routedown Massachusetts Avenue, through Harvard Square to Memorial Drive, along the Charles River to the Harvard Bridge over by MIT, and backa little over ve miles, a forty-ve-minute round trip. She had long been attracted to the idea of running in the Boston Marathon but each year decided that she realistically didnt have the time to train for that kind of distance.
Maybe someday she would. In excellent physical condition for a woman her age, she imagined running strong well into her sixties. Clustered pedestrian trafc on the sidewalks and intermittent negotiations with car trafc in street intersections littered the rst part of her run through Harvard Square. It was crowded and ripe with anticipation at that time of day on a Saturday, with crowds forming and milling around on street corners waiting for walk signals, outside restaurants waiting for tables, in movie theater lines waiting for tickets, and in double-parked cars waiting for an unlikely opening in a metered space.
The rst ten minutes of her run required a good deal of conscious external concentration to navigate through it all, but once she crossed Memorial Drive to the Charles River, she was free to run in full stride and completely in the zone. A comfortable and cloudless evening invited a lot of activity along the Charles, yet the grassy area beside the river felt less congested than the streets of Cambridge.
Despite a steady stream of joggers, dogs and their owners, walkers, Rollerbladers, cyclists, and women pushing babies in jogger strollers, like an experienced driver on a regularly traveled l i s a g e n o va stretch of road, Alice retained only a vague sense for what went on around her now. As she ran along the river, she became mindful of nothing but the sounds of her Nikes hitting the pavement in syncopated rhythm with the pace of her breath.
She didnt replay her argument with Lydia. She didnt acknowledge her growling stomach. She didnt think about John. She just ran. As was her routine, she stopped running once she made it back to the John Fitzgerald Kennedy Park, a pocket of manicured lawns abutting Memorial Drive.
Her head cleared, her body relaxed and rejuvenated, she began walking home. At the other end of the corridor, she stood at the intersection of Eliot Street and Brattle, ready to cross, when a woman grabbed her forearm with startling force and said, Have you thought about heaven today?
The woman xed Alice with a penetrating, unwavering stare. She had long hair the color and texture of a teased Brillo pad and wore a handmade placard hung over her chest that read america repent, turn to jesus from sin.
There was always someone selling God in Harvard Square, but Alice had never been singled out so directly and intimately before. Sorry, she said and, noticing a break in the ow of trafc, escaped to the other side of the street.
She wanted to continue walking but stood frozen instead. She didnt know where she was. She looked back across the street. The Brillo-haired woman pursued another sinner down the corridor. The corridor, the hotel, the stores, the illogically meandering streets. She knew she was in Harvard Square, but she didnt know which way was home. Hardware, Mount Auburn Street. She knew all of these placesthis square had been her stomping ground for over twenty-ve yearsbut they somehow didnt t into a mental map that told her where she lived relative to them.
A black-and-white circular T sign directly in front of her marked an entrance to the Red Line trains and buses underground, but there were three such entrances in Harvard Square, and she couldnt piece together which one of the three this was. Her heart began to race. She started sweating. She told herself that an accelerated heart rate and perspiration were part of an orchestrated and appropriate response to running.
But as she stood on the sidewalk, it felt like panic. She willed herself to walk another block and then another, her rubbery legs feeling like they might give way with each bewildered step. The Coop, Cardullos, the magazines on the corner, the Cambridge visitors center across the street, and Harvard Yard beyond that. She told herself she could still read and recognize.
None of it helped. It all lacked a context. People, cars, buses, and all kinds of unbearable noise rushed and wove around and past her. She closed her eyes. She listened to her own blood whoosh and pulse behind her ears. Please stop this, she whispered. She opened her eyes. Just as suddenly as it had left her, the landscape snapped snugly back into place. She automatically understood that she should turn left at the corner and head west on Mass Ave.
She began to breathe easier, no longer bizarrely lost within a mile of home. But shed just been bizarrely lost l i s a g e n o va within a mile of home. She walked as fast as she could without running. She turned onto her street, a quiet, tree-lined, residential road a couple of blocks removed from Mass Ave. With both feet on her road and her house in sight, she felt much safer, but not yet safe. She kept her eyes on her front door and her legs moving and promised herself that the sea of anxiety swelling furiously inside her would drain when she walked in the front hallway and saw John.
If he was home. He appeared in the threshold of the kitchen, unshaven, his glasses sitting on top of his mad-scientist hair, sucking on a red Popsicle and sporting his lucky gray T-shirt. Hed been up all night. As shed promised herself, her anxiety began to drain. But her energy and bravery seemed to leak out with it, leaving her fragile and wanting to collapse into his arms.
Hey, I was wondering where you were, just about to leave you a note on the fridge. Howd it go?
Oh, good. And hows Lydia?
The betrayal and hurt over Lydia, over him not being home when she got there, exorcised by the run and displaced by her terror at being inexplicably lost, reclaimed its priority in the pecking order.
You tell me, she said. You guys fought. Youre paying for her acting classes? Oh, he said, sucking the last of the Popsicle into his redstained mouth. Look, can we talk about this later?
I dont have time to get into it right now. Youre keeping her aoat out there without telling me, and youre not here when I get home, and And you werent here when I got home. How was your run? She heard the simple reasoning in his veiled question. If she had waited for him, if she had called, if she hadnt done exactly what shed wanted and gone for a run, she couldve spent the last hour with him.
She had to agree. Im sorry, I waited as long as I could, but Ive really got to get back to the lab. Ive had an incredible day so far, gorgeous results, but were not done, and Ive got to analyze the numbers before we get started again in the morning.
I only came home to see you. I need to talk about this with you now. This really isnt new information, Ali. We disagree about Lydia.
Cant it wait until I get back? You want to walk over with me, talk about it on the way? Im not going to the ofce, I need to be home. You need to talk now, you need to be home, youre awfully needy all of a sudden. Is something else going on?
The word needy smacked a vulnerable nerve. Needy equaled weak, dependent, pathological. Her father. Shed made a lifelong point of never being like that, like him. Im just exhausted. You look it, you need to slow down.
Thats not what I need. He waited for her to elaborate, but she took too long. Look, the sooner I go, the sooner Ill be back. Get some rest, Ill be home later tonight. Standing in the hallway where hed left her, with no one to confess to or conde in, she felt the full emotional impact of what shed just experienced in Harvard Square ood over her.
She sat down on the oor and leaned against the cool wall, watching her hands shake in her lap as if they couldnt be hers. She tried to focus on steadying her breath as she did when she ran. After minutes of breathing in and breathing out, she was nally calm enough to attempt to assemble some sense out of what had just happened.
She thought about the missing word during her talk at Stanford and her missing period. She got up, turned on her laptop, and Googled menopause symptoms. An appalling list lled the screenhot ashes, night sweats, insomnia, crashing fatigue, anxiety, dizziness, irregular heartbeat, depression, irritability, mood swings, disorientation, mental confusion, memory lapses. On a personal note, there is a history of Alzheimer's in my family.
I don't understand it enough to know whether it's genetic or a coincidence that many of the women on my mother's side have suffered from the disease.
I do know my mum is afraid of it, though she doesn't talk about it often. But every time she forgets where she put something she was holding just minutes ago, every time she reaches for a word - a word she uses every day - and it slips away, just out of her grasp, every single time she wonders if it's a sign of something more serious than getting older and having a busy schedule. It's this small scale stuff that makes the novel so terrifying.
We could all be Alice. We all forget small things every day, that's just a fact and it happens to everyone, but what if one day those forgotten memories don't come back straight away?
And the next time, what if they go a bit longer? The progression from the small things to the more serious stages of the disease is truly scary. This book is frightening on both a biologial and psychological level.
When I think of Alzheimer's, I think of forgotten memories, of faces you can't put a name to, of everyday places that seem unfamiliar.
But the author's haunting descriptions of the biological truth are entirely different and frightening on a whole new level. I don't think about what is really happening in the brain, neurons being destroyed bit by bit, dying some more every day, eroding pieces of who you are.
Memories, for me, are those things that disappear for a while but come back to you later. But Alzheimer's doesn't make you forget memories, it goes in and completely destroys them. As if they were never there.
And that is the important question for Alice: how much can she lose and still be herself? At fifty years old, she's a cognitive. Mar 21, - You're Invited! Jun 7, - Lisa Genova says that Huntington's is often called the cruelest disease because it ravages whole families. And what ultimately makes author Lisa Genova's. Genova's debut is an undeniably poignant. Still Alice is a touching novel written by Lisa Genova.
It is about a woman named Alice who was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's disease.