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amiboughter's review against another edition
5.0
There are times when a book crosses your path at exactly the right time. This is how Changing appeared in my life. What beautiful writing; a life of empathy, loneliness, yearning, success - all of it. I have never seen a Liv Ullmann film or even an Ingmar Bergman one. It doesn't matter. I can appreciate unflinching honesty in any case.
ninadisalvo's review
5.0
I absolutely adore Liv Ullman and deeply enjoyed her autobiography, Changing. Abandoning the usual template of discussing oneself as character in a chronological series of life altering/shaping events, Liv takes us through memory through this book. Ullman has a eloquent, simple, pure way of transporting you into a time, space, and emotion that is both calming and curious. I found myself writing a copious amount of notes while reading her book, not necessarily takeaways/notes to self, but just quite literally quoting her. Her descriptors are so rich, meaningful, and beautiful. I loved that some 'chapters', snippets rather, were a single page, some three, others fifteen. It was poetic and kaleidoscopic and I want to keep this book on my shelf forever. I'm excited to read this on the beach again when I'm old, haha, this is one that I will certainly keep around/revisit.
al_sharnaqi's review against another edition
4.0
بدايةً، قد اقتنيتُ 'أتغيّر' بتوصية من صديقة، وهي السيرة الذاتية لحياة 'ليف اولمن' والتي كتبتها هي بذاتها. وقد أحببتُ قراءة هذه السيرة. وأحببتُ كيف كانت ليف اولمن صادقة مع ذاتها بينما تتحدث إلى نفسها على الورق في مذكرات لم تعني بها في بادئ الأمر بأن تتشكل في نهاية المطاف على هيئة سيرة ذاتية جيّدة للقراءة كهذه، بل وأكثر من جيّدة. وأكثر ما أحببتُه شجاعتها وقُوَتها الَتِي واجهت بها العالم بأسرِه في نشر مذكراتها بعدما تغلبت على نفسها وتصالحت مع ذاتها في وفاق وسلام.
ثم إنه ليُعجبني تلك السير التي يكتُبُ فيها أصحابها تجاربهم بعد عمق خوضٍ فيها وتفكير. دون أن يلوو على أنفسهم بشيء من كذب ولا تلبيس. وكانت هذه السيرة بمثابة مرآة تواجه فيها ليف اولمن ذاتها بشفافية ومصداقية دون أن تكترث بِنَا نحن المتفرجين -القرّاء-.
في حقيقةً الأمر، لقد أحببت كثيرًا القراءة في هذه السيرة التي من الممكن أن أسميها بالسيرة الصادقة أو الشفافة، شيءٌ من هذا القبيل : )
ثم إنه ليُعجبني تلك السير التي يكتُبُ فيها أصحابها تجاربهم بعد عمق خوضٍ فيها وتفكير. دون أن يلوو على أنفسهم بشيء من كذب ولا تلبيس. وكانت هذه السيرة بمثابة مرآة تواجه فيها ليف اولمن ذاتها بشفافية ومصداقية دون أن تكترث بِنَا نحن المتفرجين -القرّاء-.
في حقيقةً الأمر، لقد أحببت كثيرًا القراءة في هذه السيرة التي من الممكن أن أسميها بالسيرة الصادقة أو الشفافة، شيءٌ من هذا القبيل : )
fields's review
3.0
Liv Ullmann is remembered for her performances which were often quiet but intense and evocative. I admire her acting, how she haunts. But her memoir is not haunting in the same sense: it is real; as much as she is real within it. Yet her realness does not simplify her.
This book is for her daughter, Linn. It is, perhaps, for her alone. Her motherhood, which is of both, guilt and love, seems to be written across these pages.
She speaks of her childhood and her first encounter with death (“One day I buried all my dolls at his grave. I didn't want him to lie there alone. I stole flowers from other graves to brighten the place up for Papa and the dolls. All the grownups were angry. And Mamma spoke about death so it became as beautiful for me as love. I hoped I would die soon.”).
Of her marriage. The theater. Hollywood, the discomfort of fame. She matures, she loves. She is longing, helpless, sensitive. She is free. Among fjords, she is free. Unknown in the dark of Oslo, she is free. Among her heather, her trees, in Trondhjem.
As an explorer of poetic cinema, I was very grateful for her insight into Ingmar Bergman the partner, the friend, and the (demanding) director—
“Ingmar writes that perhaps there are no words that reach us, that perhaps there is no reality. That reality exists only as a longing.”
I appreciated her attention to details, e.g. describing sheep giving birth in the frozen March (“the small one remained lying on the ground, while blood and slime turned to ice on its body”).
I enjoy diaries/memoirs for their ability to unravel the famed author/actress/etc. from the inevitable layer of “the mysterious”: the diary shows us the real earth, the real body, behind what has formerly been mythologized. The diarists can be admired for more earthy qualities, which are often as poetic as their literatures and performances. And Liv the diarist is vulnerable, flawed, tender, and poetic.
“We stare out into space, never to exist again.”
This book is for her daughter, Linn. It is, perhaps, for her alone. Her motherhood, which is of both, guilt and love, seems to be written across these pages.
She speaks of her childhood and her first encounter with death (“One day I buried all my dolls at his grave. I didn't want him to lie there alone. I stole flowers from other graves to brighten the place up for Papa and the dolls. All the grownups were angry. And Mamma spoke about death so it became as beautiful for me as love. I hoped I would die soon.”).
Of her marriage. The theater. Hollywood, the discomfort of fame. She matures, she loves. She is longing, helpless, sensitive. She is free. Among fjords, she is free. Unknown in the dark of Oslo, she is free. Among her heather, her trees, in Trondhjem.
As an explorer of poetic cinema, I was very grateful for her insight into Ingmar Bergman the partner, the friend, and the (demanding) director—
“Ingmar writes that perhaps there are no words that reach us, that perhaps there is no reality. That reality exists only as a longing.”
I appreciated her attention to details, e.g. describing sheep giving birth in the frozen March (“the small one remained lying on the ground, while blood and slime turned to ice on its body”).
I enjoy diaries/memoirs for their ability to unravel the famed author/actress/etc. from the inevitable layer of “the mysterious”: the diary shows us the real earth, the real body, behind what has formerly been mythologized. The diarists can be admired for more earthy qualities, which are often as poetic as their literatures and performances. And Liv the diarist is vulnerable, flawed, tender, and poetic.
“We stare out into space, never to exist again.”
dolcezzina21's review
5.0
This is an introspective book that every woman should read at least once in their lifetime. It brought me back to my childhood again and again, and made me take a good look at my life currently. I felt like I was picking at Liv's brain, exploring the deepest parts of her psyche, and then transforming into her from that experience. Very hard to explain but that's how it felt. Her thoughts are so spot on and meaningful that I found myself nodding and talking to myself while reading. Thank you to the stranger that recommended this out of print book to me with such passion. And thanks to Liv for opening herself up like that, revealing her deepest core, and leaving herself so vulnerable. I am changed from your book.
mariscrane's review
5.0
Not a salacious tell-all, but some lovely reflections on being a single mother, fame, relationships, and death. Five stars!
bassant's review against another edition
ولا مهتمه بالممثلة وغير كدا انا مش شايفه الكتاب ليه ستين لازمة
quiver's review
3.0
Liv Ullmann is remembered for her performances which were often quiet but intense and evocative. I admire her acting, how she haunts. But her memoir is not haunting in the same sense: it is real; as much as she is real within it. Yet her realness does not simplify her.
This book is for her daughter, Linn. It is, perhaps, for her alone. Her motherhood, which is of both, guilt and love, seems to be written across these pages.
She speaks of her childhood and her first encounter with death (“One day I buried all my dolls at his grave. I didn't want him to lie there alone. I stole flowers from other graves to brighten the place up for Papa and the dolls. All the grownups were angry. And Mamma spoke about death so it became as beautiful for me as love. I hoped I would die soon.”).
Of her marriage. The theater. Hollywood, the discomfort of fame. She matures, she loves. She is longing, helpless, sensitive. She is free. Among fjords, she is free. Unknown in the dark of Oslo, she is free. Among her heather, her trees, in Trondhjem.
As an explorer of poetic cinema, I was very grateful for her insight into Ingmar Bergman the partner, the friend, and the (demanding) director—
“Ingmar writes that perhaps there are no words that reach us, that perhaps there is no reality. That reality exists only as a longing.”
I appreciated her attention to details, e.g. describing sheep giving birth in the frozen March (“the small one remained lying on the ground, while blood and slime turned to ice on its body”).
I enjoy diaries/memoirs for their ability to unravel the famed author/actress/etc. from the inevitable layer of “the mysterious”: the diary shows us the real earth, the real body, behind what has formerly been mythologized. The diarists can be admired for more earthy qualities, which are often as poetic as their literatures and performances. And Liv the diarist is vulnerable, flawed, tender, and poetic.
“We stare out into space, never to exist again.”
This book is for her daughter, Linn. It is, perhaps, for her alone. Her motherhood, which is of both, guilt and love, seems to be written across these pages.
She speaks of her childhood and her first encounter with death (“One day I buried all my dolls at his grave. I didn't want him to lie there alone. I stole flowers from other graves to brighten the place up for Papa and the dolls. All the grownups were angry. And Mamma spoke about death so it became as beautiful for me as love. I hoped I would die soon.”).
Of her marriage. The theater. Hollywood, the discomfort of fame. She matures, she loves. She is longing, helpless, sensitive. She is free. Among fjords, she is free. Unknown in the dark of Oslo, she is free. Among her heather, her trees, in Trondhjem.
As an explorer of poetic cinema, I was very grateful for her insight into Ingmar Bergman the partner, the friend, and the (demanding) director—
“Ingmar writes that perhaps there are no words that reach us, that perhaps there is no reality. That reality exists only as a longing.”
I appreciated her attention to details, e.g. describing sheep giving birth in the frozen March (“the small one remained lying on the ground, while blood and slime turned to ice on its body”).
I enjoy diaries/memoirs for their ability to unravel the famed author/actress/etc. from the inevitable layer of “the mysterious”: the diary shows us the real earth, the real body, behind what has formerly been mythologized. The diarists can be admired for more earthy qualities, which are often as poetic as their literatures and performances. And Liv the diarist is vulnerable, flawed, tender, and poetic.
“We stare out into space, never to exist again.”