Former star correspondent for CNN, Siobhan Darrow covered the world’s hottest war zones over the last two decades, reporting from the front lines in Moscow, Chechnya, the Balkans, Albania, Israel, and Northern Ireland. Her fearless pursuit of stories placed her in countless life-threatening situations, prompting Darrow to wonder what about her character so attracted her to adrenaline, and so alienated her from the family life a part of her longed for. Darrow approaches this question with the same honesty–and seat-of-the-pants courage–that established her reputation as a premiere reporter, and the answers she arrives at form this riveting memoir of a woman assigned to cover history in the making, even as she chases down the most elusive “get” of all: her own happiness.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of eBook: Flirting with Danger|
|Release Date: 02-16-2011|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group|
This eBook download is available in the following formats:
|Parent title||Flirting with Danger|
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Flirting with Danger
Joy usually entered our house on four legs, sometimes on two webbed feet or a pair of wings. When I was growing up, no matter how little money we had, there always seemed to be enough to feed another tiny amphibian, canine, or feline mouth. My mother loved animals, and I think having them around helped keep her sane. There was Lion Face, the big orange tomcat who fathered innumerable kittens. There were the African frogs, who accidentally froze on the windowsill one sudden winter's day, their limbs captured midstroke, trapped in an icy grave. And there were the gerbils I won at school by guessing how many beans were in a jar. My cat ate them and left their carcasses on my pillowher pillow. Perhaps it was an innocent offering, or maybe a warning not to betray her with other animals. I accepted the violence in my animal world. It had rumbled around my human world ever since I can remember.
I was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland. I lived with my grandparents, my older sister, Alexandra, and my mother during one of our many separations from my American father. My grandfather always sat in his wheelchair by the fireplace; one of his legs had been shot off in the First World War. In our bedroom, an old grenade lay on the mantel piece, a daily reminder of the danger lurking outside. The "Troubles," as people in Northern Ireland called their bloodshed, were still brewing but had not fully erupted yet. It was 1963. When we crossed the ocean to America, turmoil came with us and took root in our home in New Jersey. I found sanctuary with the animals.
When we got a dark Siamese cat, my mother said I could name her. I...