My mother’s many unquestioning acolytes regarded her as a sparkling force of nature. She could be charming, creative, and charismatic. But she also had a deep store of anger within her. In public it occasionally darkened her face, though the thunderclouds only broke when she had me to herself. Unfortunately, with it being just the two of us, this happened often, her fury shaking our tin-roof house as loudly as a pelting of hail.

The outbursts would be followed by tearful apologies. Then by platitudes that made no sense. Then by suggestions of renewed intimacy that I had to comply with if I didn’t want the anger to return. Huddled under her sunshine quilt, I’d be asked to tell all, in particular about boys. It took many naive confessions before I realized that our intimacy depended on my being the person she wanted me to be, not the person I was.

After I failed the law degree my mother expected to lead to a solid career, or at least a distinguished lawyer husband, I escaped to the UK. As a child, I’d buried myself in books; during the wasted years spent trying to memorize legal cases, I’d had no time to read, but in Telford I began to crave fiction again. I longed to lose myself in other lives, to feel the pulse of other worlds.

Yet the impetus to register for a part-time English literature degree came, unexpectedly, from cocaine. A guy at Dent Mend gave me a tiny “takeaway” to try at home. I made three dots (there wasn’t enough for lines) to share with my hosts’ sons. We claimed it had no effect but late that night, sleepless and bursting with bravery, I filled in the registration forms.

I’d assumed that my father’s genes would breeze me through the course. But to my surprise, studying a subject I thought I’d love didn’t come easy. Getting a grip on theoretical arguments was tough. Nonetheless, I persisted in organizing my life around it.

In a leafy south London suburb, I took a room in a houseshare that was private, professional, and quiet. Nights I didn’t stay over at my boyfriend’s, I got up at four A.M. to work. After scraping through Post-colonialism (just), I moved on to Victorian Gothic. But I was a slow reader, a distracted thinker; when I came across lines I liked, I’d mull them over for hours . . .

Despite my approach leading to flights of fancy rather than academic completion, I kept thinking I had to steep myself in the spirit of the books. Buying black taper candles on my lunch break, I bumped into Sabine. I told her of what I was trying to do. Later, she burned me a death metal album by Gorguts called Obscura.

“This,” she said with authority, “will definitely help.”

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