{"product_id":"then-again-isbn-9780812980950","title":"Then Again","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • Legendary actress Diane Keaton’s memoir about her mother and herself, “as warm, funny, and self-deprecating as Keaton’s onscreen persona” (\u003ci\u003eVogue\u003c\/i\u003e)—featuring an afterword by Anna Quindlen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A far-reaching, heartbreaking, absolutely lucid book about mothers, daughters, childhood, aging, mortality, joyfulness, love, work, and the search for self-knowledge.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“This book feels like Diane Keaton. Which means it’s lovable.”—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThen Again\u003c\/i\u003e reads like the diary of an ordinary woman who suddenly became a movie star, who doesn’t quite believe any of it happened, but it did.”\u003ci\u003e—Los Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eONE OF THE TEN BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: Janet Maslin, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eVogue\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMom loved adages, quotes, slogans. There were always little reminders pasted on the kitchen wall. For example, the word THINK. I found THINK thumbtacked on a bulletin board in her darkroom. I saw it Scotch-taped on a pencil box she’d collaged. I even found a pamphlet titled THINK on her bedside table. Mom liked to THINK.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo begins Diane Keaton’s unforgettable memoir about her relationship with her mother, who shaped much of Diane's life. You will meet the woman known to tens of millions as Annie Hall, but you will also meet, and fall in love with, her mother, the loving, complicated, always-thinking Dorothy Hall. To write about herself, Diane realized she had to write about her mother, too, and how their bond came to define both their lives. In a remarkable act of creation, Diane not only reveals herself to us, she also lets us meet in intimate detail her mother. Over the course of her life, Dorothy kept eighty-five journals—literally thousands of pages—in which she wrote about her marriage, her children, her parents, and, most probingly, herself. Diane has sorted through these pages to paint an unflinching portrait of her mother—a woman restless with intellectual and creative energy, struggling to find an outlet for her talents—as well as her entire family, recounting a story that spans four generations and nearly a hundred years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMore than the autobiography of an icon of film and style, \u003ci\u003eThen Again\u003c\/i\u003e is a book about a very American family with very American dreams. Diane will remind you of yourself, and her bonds with her family will remind you of your own relationships with those you love the most.“For anyone looking to join one woman’s—albeit a famous woman’s—touching and funny journey into the vortex that is the parent-child relationship, \u003ci\u003eThen Again\u003c\/i\u003e features an especially honest tour guide.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“[A] rich and ruminative autobiographical journey.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e (Editor’s Choice)\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Although peek-behind-the-curtain moments are delicious—Woody Allen! Warren Beatty! Jack Nicholson! . . . this is a [memoir] about a mother and a daughter, with insights and confessions and lessons to which all readers can relate.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Between its many glimpses of Ms. Keaton at different ages, its telling of Dorothy’s story and its loving portraits of Dexter, Ms. Keaton’s teenage daughter, this book manages to present the full spectrum of women’s experiences, from babyhood to adolescence, youthful insecurity (and secret bulimia) to liberating adulthood to slow, lingering death. Its power as a collage has been greatly enhanced by tight, punchy editing of the fragments that Ms. Keaton variously writes or excerpts. Some of its stories are universal and painful, yet this book is not mired in melancholy. Instead, it’s inspiring in its empathy, wisdom, and self-knowledge.”\u003cb\u003e—Janet Maslin, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Both heartbreaking and joyful, [\u003ci\u003eThen Again\u003c\/i\u003e] covers the gamut of life experiences facing all women.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Sun-Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A poem about women living in one another’s not uncomplicated memories. . . . Part of what makes Diane Keaton’s memoir, \u003ci\u003eThen Again,\u003c\/i\u003e truly amazing is that she does away with the star’s ‘me’ and replaces it with a daughter’s ‘I.’ ”\u003cb\u003e—Hilton Als, \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“This book feels like Diane Keaton. Which means it’s lovable.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Entertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“As warm, funny, and self-deprecating as Keaton’s onscreen persona—[\u003ci\u003eThen Again\u003c\/i\u003e] traces a profound dramatic arc: that of a young woman coming into her own as an artist, and of a daughter becoming a mother.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eVogue\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThen Again\u003c\/i\u003e reads like the diary of an ordinary woman who suddenly became a movie star, who doesn’t quite believe any of it happened, but it did.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“As revealed in these pages, Keaton both is and isn’t what you’d expect: kooky and self-deprecating like Annie Hall, but also articulate and remarkably candid. [\u003ci\u003eThen Again\u003c\/i\u003e is a] pure delight.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eDiane Keaton\u003c\/b\u003e starred in some of the most memorable films of the past fifty years, including the \u003ci\u003eGodfather\u003c\/i\u003e trilogy, \u003ci\u003eAnnie Hall, Manhattan, Reds, Baby Boom, The First Wives Club, Something’s Gotta Give\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eBook Club\u003c\/i\u003e. Her many awards include the Golden Globe and the Academy Award. She was the author of three \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling memoirs, \u003ci\u003eThen Again, Let’s Just Say It Wasn’t Pretty\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eBrother \u0026amp; Sister, \u003c\/i\u003eamong other works.\u003cb\u003eTHINK\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMom loved adages, quotes, slogans. There were always little reminders pasted on the kitchen wall. For example, the word think. I found think thumbtacked on a bulletin board in her darkroom. I saw it Scotch-taped on a pencil box she’d col- laged. I even found a pamphlet titled think on her bedside table. Mom liked to think. In a notebook she wrote, \u003ci\u003eI’m reading Tom Robbins’s book\u003c\/i\u003e Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. \u003ci\u003eThe passage about marriage ties in with women’s struggle for accomplishment. I’m writing this down for future THINKING\u003c\/i\u003e . . . She followed with a Robbins quote: “\u003ci\u003eFor most poor dumb brainwashed women marriage is the climactic experience. For men, marriage is a matter of efficient logistics: the male gets his food, bed, laundry, TV . . . off- spring and creature comforts all under one roof. . . . But for a woman, marriage is surrender. Marriage is when a girl gives up the fight . . . and from then on leaves the truly interesting and significant action to her husband, who has bar- gained to ‘take care’ of her. . . . Women live longer than men because they really haven’t been living\u003c\/i\u003e.” Mom liked to think about life, especially the experience of being a woman. She liked to write about it too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the mid-seventies on a visit home, I was printing some photographs I’d taken of Atlantic City in Mother’s darkroom when I found something I’d never seen. It was some kind of, I don’t know, sketchbook. On the cover was a collage she’d made out of family photographs with the words \u003ci\u003eIt’s the Journey That Counts, Not the Arrival\u003c\/i\u003e. I picked it up and flipped through the pages. Although it included several collages made from snapshots and magazine cutouts, it was filled with page after page of writing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHad a productive day at Hunter’s Bookstore. We re- arranged the art section and discovered many interesting books hidden away. It’s been two weeks since I was hired. I make 3 dollars and thirty-five cents an hour. Today I got paid 89 dollars in total.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis wasn’t one of Mom’s typical scrapbooks, with the usual napkins from Clifton’s Cafeteria, old black-and-white photographs, and my less-than-thrilling report cards. This was a journal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn entry dated August 2, 1976, read: \u003ci\u003eWATCH OUT ON THIS PAGE. For you, the possible reader in the future, this takes courage. I’m speaking of what is on my mind. I am angry. Target—Jack—bad names, those he has flung at me—NOT forgotten and that is undoubtedly the problem—“You frigin’ bastard”––all said—all felt. God, who the hell does he think he is?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was it for me. This was raw, too raw. I didn’t want to know about an aspect of Mother and Father’s life that could shatter my perception of their love. I put it down, walked out of the darkroom, and did not open another one of her eighty-five journals until she died some thirty years later. But, of course, no matter how hard I tried to deny their presence, I couldn’t help but see them resting on bookshelves, or placed underneath the telephone, or even staring up at me from inside a kitchen drawer. One time I began looking through Mom’s new Georgia O’Keeffe \u003ci\u003eOne Hundred Flowers\u003c\/i\u003e picture book on the coffee table, only to find a journal titled W\u003ci\u003eho Says You Haven’t Got a Chance\u003c\/i\u003e? lying underneath. It was as if they were conspiring, “Pick us up, Diane. Pick us up.” Forget it. There was no way I was going to go through that experience again. But I was impressed with Mom’s tenacity. How could she keep writing without an audience, not even her own family? She just did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wrote about going back to school at age forty. She wrote about being a teacher. She wrote about every stray cat she rescued. When her sister Marti got skin cancer and lost most of her nose, she wrote about that too. She wrote about her frustrations with aging. When Dad got sick in 1990, her journal raged at the injustice of the cancer that attacked his brain. The documentation of his passing proved to be some of Mom’s finest reporting. It was as if taking care of Jack made her love him in a way that helped her become the person she always wished she could have been.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI was trying to get Jack to eat today. But he couldn’t. After a while, I took off my glasses. I put my head close to his, and I told him, I whispered to him, that I missed him. I started to cry. I didn’t want him to see, so I turned my head away. And Jack, with what little strength remained in that damn body of his, took a napkin from my pocket and slowly, as with everything he did, slowly, so slowly, he looked at me with those piercing blue eyes and wiped the tears away from my face. “We’ll make it through this, Doro- thy.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe didn’t. In the end, Mom took care of Dad, just as she had taken care of Randy, Robin, Dorrie, and me—all our lives. But who was there for her when she wrote in a shaky hand: June 1993. \u003ci\u003eThis is the day I heard I have the beginning of Alzheimer’s disease. Scary. \u003c\/i\u003eThus began a fifteen-year battle against the loss of memory.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe kept writing. When she could no longer write paragraphs, she wrote sentences like \u003ci\u003eWould we hurt each other less if we touched each other more\u003c\/i\u003e? and \u003ci\u003eHonor thyself\u003c\/i\u003e. And short questions and statements like \u003ci\u003eQuick. What’s today’s date?\u003c\/i\u003e Or odd things like \u003ci\u003eMy head is taking a turn\u003c\/i\u003e. When she couldn’t write sentences, she wrote words: \u003ci\u003eRENT. CALL. FLOWERS. CAR\u003c\/i\u003e. And even her favorite word, \u003ci\u003eTHINK\u003c\/i\u003e. When she ran out of words, she wrote numbers, until she couldn’t write anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDorothy Deanne Keaton was born in Winfield, Kansas, in 1921. Her parents, Beulah and Roy, drifted into California before she was three. They were heartlanders in search of the big dream. It dumped them into the hills of Pasadena. Mom played the piano and sang in a trio called Two Dots and a Dash at her high school. She was sixteen when her father drove off, leaving Beulah and her three daughters to fend for themselves. It was hard times for the Keaton girls in the late thirties. Beulah, who’d never worked a day in her life, had to find a job. Dorothy gave up her college dreams in order to help around the house until Beulah finally found work as a janitor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have a photograph of sixteen-year-old Dorothy standing next to her father, Roy Keaton. Why did he leave his favorite daughter, his look-alike; why? How could he have driven away knowing he would forever break some part of her heart?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEverything changed when Dorothy met Jack Hall on a basketball court at Los Angeles Pacific College in Highland Park. Mom loved to recall how this handsome black-haired, blue-eyed young man had come to meet her sister Martha but only had eyes for her. She would laugh and say, “It was love at first sight.” And it must have been, because not long after that, they eloped in Las Vegas at the Stardust Hotel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMother never told me of her dreams for herself. There were hints though. She was president of the PTA as well as the Arroyo Vista Ladies Club. She was a Sunday-school teacher at our Free Methodist church. She entered every con- test on the back of every cereal box. She loved game shows. Our favorite was Queen for a Day, emceed by Jack Bailey, who began each episode, five days a week, with “Would YOU like to be . . . QUEEN . . . FOR . . . A . . . DAY?” The game went like this: Bailey interviewed four women; whoever was in the worst shape—assessed by the audience applause meter—was crowned Queen for a Day. With “Pomp and Circumstance” playing, he would wrap the winner in a velvet cape with a white fur collar, place a sparkling tiara on her head, and give her four dozen red coronation roses fromCarl’s of Hollywood. Mom and Auntie Martha wrote their sad stories on the application sheet more than once. She almost made the cut when she wrote, “My husband needs a lung.” When pressed for details, Mom told the truth—well, sort of. Jack Hall, an ardent skin diver, needed to dive deeper in order to put more food on his family’s plates. Mom was eliminated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne morning I woke up to a group of strangers walking around our house examining every room. Mom hadn’t bothered to tell us she had entered the Mrs. America contest at our local level. Mrs. America was a pageant devoted to finding the ideal homemaker. Later she informed us kids it was a competition of skills that included table-setting, floral-arranging, bed-making, and cooking, as well as managing the family budget and excelling in personal grooming. All we could think was WOW.New York Times bestseller","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300696183013,"sku":"NP9780812980950","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812980950.jpg?v=1767742378","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/then-again-isbn-9780812980950","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}