First published over twenty-five years ago and recently reissued by The Feminist Press of the City Univesity of New York, Edith Konecky's "Allegra Maud Goldman" soars with life, tingles with humanity and snaps with feminist tang. Its theme of self-discovery, a staple of coming-of-age novels, however has a distinct slant; "Allegra" insists that its protagonist, a precocious girl growing up in late Depression Brooklyn, hurl herself against familial and societal restraints imposed on her due to the simple reason of her sex. Konecky has created a masterwork; her novel is neither strident or didactic. Instead, her protagonist, Allegra Maud Goldman tells her own story -- directly, ironically and courageously. It is this unadorned, unaffected point of view and voice which enriches the novel and elevates it to mythical proportions.

Cursed with a memory which forbids her forgetting any sexist reduction of her self, Allegra's childhood unfolds as an unending conspiracy to eviscerate her unbridled enthusiasm for life and undermine her incredible intellectual talents. Unsaddled from the urban poverty afflicting most Americans during the 1930s, Allegra lacks little material comfort but suffers, at an early age, from existential oblivion. Her distant and chronically-absent mother, a social butterfly who has made peace with her marriage to a quietly tyrannical dress manufacturer, provides little to copy as a role model. Allegra must set out to develop, define and fortify her own sense of self in a world seemingly set to reduce her to docile femininity.

In a revealing conversation with her mother, Allegra expresses discontent that her family focuses attention on her older brother David, who suffers from his own lack of confidence. When she asks, "How come nobody around here is at all interested in whether I am finding myself?", her mother dismisses her by telling her that she will "grow up and marry some nice man and have children." Against this biology is destiny environment, Allegra launches her battle. As her childhood evolves, Allegra challenges the different ways boys and girls are indoctrinated to handle their emotions, does battle with a public school system that diligently attempts to socialize girls into subordinate domestic. Her sardonic friend Melanie has one of the best lines of the novel: "If they're prepring us to be housewives...why don't they teach us something useful like sexual intercourse?"

By the time Allegra has come to grips with her evolving body, she has developed a passion for writing and a talent for poetry. Her epiphany is hard-earned and promises a life of rebellion. After having one of her poems purchased for publication in a daily newspaper, her father chooses to take her letter of acceptance instead of her creation to work as a means of validation. Stunned and bewildered by how her family "managed, with nothing but good intentions, to make me feel so dismal," Allegra repeats her own mantra of self-validation, her own declaration of independence: "You're a person. You're a person."

We tend to forget how hard girls have had to work to obtain what boys perceive is their birthright: the need for self-definition, praise for ambition and affirmation for struggle. Strong women come from strong girls. Strong girls come from the crucible of their own experiences and the will to face the hurricane. Edith Konecky's "Allegra Maud Goldman" will be a treasured companion for girls and women who savor the creation of an independent, autonomus self and will be valued by the boys and men who cherish girls and women who are strong, vibrant and proud.

I loved this book with all my heart- it told the story of how Allegra travels from childhood to young adulthood, dealing with ideas we all must cope ith- death, sex, love, and friendship. And, as a plus, her name is Allegra, a rarely seen name in the modern world, considering most people think its a drug. This book is one I recomend to all, even the most cynical of people.

This is a wonderful coming-of-age novel. Allegra Maud Goldman sees past the limitations of her conventional family, her teachers and peers. Her father is only interested in his fashion business, her mother mostly too busy meeting friends. She notices, and usually points out, what they can't see, especially when they treat her differently from her brother because she's a girl. For the most part she remains bright and clever, and her frustration rarely turns inwards or outwards - she rises above everyone and everything with the help of a friend.

It's very funny, very easy to read and stands up to being re-read.

This collection of Edith Konecky's short stories is full of surprises and worlds that range from a young man just leaving a mental institution who gets a job writing comedy to a wonderful story that manages to be funny about the sources of greed and a family battle over property. The characters are varied; the wit always supports, never merely shows off. Whether or not you're a fan of Konecky's other work, you'll enjoy this.

A divorced mother of two and a moderately successful New York writer, Rachel Levin is smart, funny, generous, and above all else, clear-eyed. A Place at the Table concerns a period in Rachel's life when she is ending a relationship with a much younger woman, becoming a grandmother, considering writing trashy novels for money, consoling a friend whose marriage is foundering, attempting to rescue Deirdre, another friend, from madness and confronting her own mortality. It is the definitions sand distinctions between Rachel and Deirdre that make the novel not just warm and witty but poignant and sage. Rachel has no fantasies about the madness that art creates or demands. Art and madness are separate, and there is nothing glamorous in her friend's decline. It is all loss. Similarly, there is nothing romantic in Rachel's own suffering. Loss is loss, art is art, trash is trash. Rachel closes her story counting her blessings, the usual ones --- work, children, friends, means, appetites. Pleasures of the mind and body, simple and comples. Sanity. And I still have one breast. This list, when one reaches it at the end of the novel, seems suddenly new and fresh, graceful and funny. The ordinary words have taken on the extraordinasry power of this wonderful, wise woman.