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There was not a lot of family feeling. There was not a lot of blood is thicker than water and home is where the heart is. Everybody was pretty much in it for themselves. We were hard American isolatos. We were solitaries, some of us, even outcasts. Unhappy families, though, still literary fiction have to eat. For my father and for me, who are Fat Girl's primary fatso's, food was source literary fiction of some of literary fiction our greatest pleasure and most awful pain. One aspect of Fat Girl that some critics don't like is that Fat Girl (and the person who wrote it) doesn't "end" happily and happy. Fat Girl does not haul ass its reader somewhere over the rainbow. Fat Girl's authoress does not prevail over adversity. I mistrust stories that finish on a note so triumphant that silver flutes pipe and wedding bells ring and Uncle Ben's long-grain white rice ricochets across the hot concrete outside the First Presbyterian Church on a June afternoon.
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