![]() ![]() I admit, even in my stodgiest of my many hearts, I’m a sucker for history and was taken with the high-speed historical roundup and the bright touches of Winterson’s own deep love for the season. ![]() Winterson’s collection begins with a whirling recitation of Christmas history with her tell-tale confidence leading the way. I had to revive the atrophied organ in my chest dedicated to processing whimsy and mercurial wonderment to understand Winterson’s collection. Winterson, this had better be good,” I said to a startled-looking, plastic reindeer half-buried in desiccated poinsettia leaves. ![]() Adjusting my monocle, I smirked into the darkness of my cellar. I prefer to leave Christmas down there, so imagine my surprise when asked to review Jeanette Winterson’s CHRISTMAS DAYS: 12 STORIES AND 12 FEASTS FOR 12 DAYS. Polaroids of the angry uncle, the racist grandfather, the Born Again aunt with the long nails and the red eyes from staring too long at the bottom of a bourbon bottle, all carefully catalogued and labeled for my inevitable, once-a-year grudge viewing. There are picture albums stacked perilously high near the furnace, filled with photos of Christmases past. ![]() My heart is a coal cellar, piled high with flattened, inflatable Santas, shattered Christmas tree ornaments, and red and green drifts of unsent holiday greeting cards. ![]()
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