before she can die meaningfully. Her method will be to undo, to reverse in some ways, and to balance the style by which she has lived thus far. That is, she will fill in some of the gaps in space and time that have prevented her from having a solid self. She will attempt to connect the prose of her life as a beleaguered mother and wife with the poetry that somehow still fuels her. 8
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At her core there is solitude. But it is not, she discovers, the same thing as emptiness. In fact, at this stage of her life, she relishes it, refusing to give it up by moving to a communal life, even creating it artificially, if necessary, by turning off her hearing aid. She senses that from the silence will come the identity she needs: ''in the reconciled solitude, to journey to herself." Eva moves, instinctively Olsen seems to suggest, to the ocean's edge, there to look "toward the shore that nurtured life as it first crawled toward consciousness the millions of years ago." Eva is herself engaged in seeking her beginnings.
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Soon the necessary data come. Though they come in scraps, they also come in torrents-words from beloved books and speeches, music from her idealistic youth. Her husband is shocked; she has not spoken of these things for decades. Hiding in the body of this frail, embittered, and normally silent woman is the young girl with noble dreams for humankind. She has survived all this time in the memory cells. At this point, Olsen introduces a poetic image for a scientific truth: it seems to Eva's husband that "for seventy years she had hidden a tape recorder, infinitely microscopic, within her, that it had coiled infinite mile on mile, trapping every song, every melody, every word read, heard, and spoken." The memories are so intense that they are almost real presences for Eva in her deteriorating but (or therefore?) receptive state. She is reunited in this sense with her girlhood friend and mentor, the aristocratic rebel Lisa, for whom, because she is a follower of Tolstoy, knowledge is holy and to be shared among all classes.
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If times and spaces have thereby been reconnected for Eva, the achievement has been bought at a terrible price. This woman, whose hands were always busy with a child, now can scarcely bear to touch one. In Sylvia Plath's memorable image from "Three Women," a baby's cries are "hooks that catch and grate like cats." Eva's grandchildren are vessels of vitality,
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