Oh, November. You spicy dirtbag what with your chaotic offerings. Pumpkin pie (yes!) My birthday (fine), and *checks hearing* skeet season. Indefatigable skeet season. Because nothing says “charming small town in late autumn” like ten-hour PEW PEW symphonies punctuated by leaf blowers every weekend. Best noise friends forever!
Apologies for griping about this again. I’m tired. And not in the fun “I ran a marathon” kind of way, but in the “I live inside a t-shirt cannon” kind of way.
I’d love to be cool about it. You know, like a Sweathog. They’re still cool, right? Or they once were? Sort of?
Bless their hearts.
Also, just so we’re clear: If I ever so much as hint at interest in running a marathon, call Liam Neeson. Clearly I’ve been taken.
Speaking of taking, my twins are out here taking tests — driver education, PSATs, SATs, a whole alphabet soup of Ts? It’s familiar and not so much. They don’t even have to fill in the circles completely and make their marks dark. What madness is that?
Life is lifing, people, and I’m bracing for the impact of seismic changes as they head out in a few years while also wondering what I did to make my back hurt this time. (Sneezing, probably.) Anyway, the twins and their younger sibling are excellent, hilarious humans who, for reasons unknown to science or the Divine, recently played tic-tac-toe using a photo of Bernie Moreno as the board. I don’t get it. I don’t want to get it. But I love them for it. Probably. Unless Urban Dictionary comes in hot with a definition so cursed it makes me question not just my potentially unholy parenting choices but also which cosmic joke stuck these tic-tac-toe anarchists with me as a mother.
Let’s awkwardly transition here to a more serious note: my mother-in-law passed away this month after illness and a hospice stay that felt both too short and impossibly long. Our rhythms are altered forever. Daily life feels like we’re walking through a house where someone rearranged all the furniture while we were sleeping.
Grief is a strange beast. It’s mercenary and acquisitive. It’s sneaky and insistent. Right now, everything feels very takey. I usually live in the givey camp, so there is clash. At some point, these two modes will need to mesh better (for me, for you, for all of us). But for now, we stand here, holding the pieces, hoping they’ll eventually fit together.
I know I’m not alone in this. Your pieces may look different and might fit together in another way, but we’re all arms-full of pieces.
We’ll figure it out.
This time of year always makes me crave community — real, soft-edged community. Now more than ever, because, honestly, it feels like half of us are allergic to the concept.
For now, I focus on a few good people, naps, moody weather, and curling my fingerless-gloved hands around a mug of something steaming. All the soft, cushiony, slightly drafty things. To be a hygge gourmand, if you will. Or if you won’t. Either way.
For now, the holidays charge at us like an over-sugared, under-napped toddler with a glitter cannon, my writing continues with something like enjoyment, and the world remains a noisy, beautiful dumpster fire of delight and despair.
But we’re here, right? We’re doing the damn thing, even if we have no idea what the damn thing is. I think it involves Hūsker Dū, but don’t quote me on that.
Or maybe Hüsker Dü?
As Brian Eno (probably) said: “You’re most alive when you’re not quite sure what’s going on.” If that’s true, then congratulations to me: I am the most alive human in the history of aliveness.
Pass the soup.
Here are some splashes of marvelous from November, 2024:
Watch the following at your own risk. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but it has big car-crashes-into-a-random-iceberg-floating-down-Main-Street energy. And this ditty is constructing a weird little flute-shaped nest in my brain. Rent free.
This quote by Louise Glück hit me like a piano falling from the sky — sudden, sharp, and oddly satisfying. Except that satisfying part. More like a not-entirely unpleasant metaphysical headache in the key of F#. Anyway, it’s less frustrating than the movie Interstellar.
Read this article about Pulp Fiction turning 30: a retrospective so cool it wears sunglasses indoors. I recommend pairing it with a Royale with Cheese (not included).
Technically this was an October delight. I attended a reading featuring many of the authors from the anthology 3rd and Oak. Then I got the book. You should, too. And if you ever get the chance to see these authors reunite, drop everything and go. Also, a PSA: if Carrie Hayes is moderating anything — I don’t care if it’s a PTA meeting or a seminar on municipal parking regulations — ATTEND. Trust me.
Erika Meitner’s poem over at The New Yorker. Read it. Absorb it. Embody it. Punch a clock in its smug little face. Not this clock, though. It’s cute.
Available at kawaii-heaven.com. I have no affiliation.
Every so often, my teenagers willingly hang out with us, and when they do, we play Jackbox. And let me tell you, I laugh to tears every single time we play. The games are varied enough that everyone gets a moment to shine. Real self-care is enjoying your weird, wonderful family.
So, howdy, December! May yours be full of good essays, weirdly compelling nonsense, and laughter so uncontrollable it could be classified as a cardio workout.
And feel free to call Liam Neeson for me anyway. He seems like he’d be fun to talk with.
Two Le Guins, A General, and a Notable Debut Author
These last four weeks were rare in that the right books and I collided into each other like we ran slow-mo toward each other in some kind of rom-com golden-light meadow. Chocolate may have been involved. It usually is.
This month’s reads were, in many ways, melancholic but also full of life. It’s in the battle between those two forces that the tasty morsels lie. I say “betwixt” because I’m fancy.
The last four weeks were quite a thing (more on that in another post, and everything is fine). Grief and exhaustion were mercenary. I needed mercy — not pity, not a kiss on the forehead — but mercy in its truest, most sustaining form. These books became that mercy.
Reading time, however necessary, was scarce. I took in enough words to stave off starvation, though barely. Crescendo began the month with promise, but then life’s walls came down.
For a time, I didn’t want to feel or think at all. No books, no television or movies, not even music. Eventually, I listened to plinky ambient music — the kind piped through hotel lobbies. Then came a slow tiptoe back to feeling, a desire to care for things. I didn’t want ambient feelings but intentional ones: thoughts that nurture, reinforce, and bring goodness and life without demanding more from me than I could give. But demanding nonetheless. In a good way.
Naturally, this led to a glorious overindulgence in Le Guin — if such a thing is even possible.
Which is all just to say these are the books that I enjoyed enough to finish in the last month:
There is a stillness at the heart of Joanna Howat’s lovely new novel Crescendo as it follows two adult children reeling from the accident that took their parents. It is in that stillness that Howat best captures the search for equilibrium and identity. The tragedy and its consequences tear through worlds, relationships, and sense of self, yet Howat never loses sight that death is a part of life, which has as many ridiculous and gentle moments as it does serious and painful ones. In those lighter moments, though, grief also seeps in unpredictably and inconveniently, as Howat also shows.
Jamie, a musician stalled in a drab, unremarkable job, is haunted by a life he cannot quite grasp as well as a more practical need to access a piano. His one light is a new romance, and even that strains under the weight of tragedy so early in its course.
Meanwhile, his sister Caz turns to increasingly self-destructive behaviors that threaten the fragile steadiness of her family. In this stripped-down emotional place, Howat’s story takes flight as Jamie and Caz stumble towards reshaping their lives.
Crescendo pays particular attention to the texture of the ordinary moments that shape young adulthood, all of the pangs and small indecisions that can be ignored until, in a flash, they are unavoidably real. Howat’s focuses on the small, suspended moments that grief amplifies, and the subtle humor that can surface in times of hardship.
This is not a book of overwrought sentiment; its power lies in its honest look at grief with a restrained hand. Rather than dramatizing sorrow, Howat leans into life’s forward march, exploring how family loyalty, memory, responsibilities, and conflicts endure even as the world unravels. Yet Crescendo is not without its moments of levity — Howat tempers Jamie and Caz’s burdens with grace, warmth, and humor. It’s beautifully balanced.
With precision and British sensibility, Howat writes a world both familiar and quietly unsettling. Her prose is crisp, conjuring a sense of place that is cozy with an underlying chill, a reminder that family bonds can be as much a burden as a comfort. Their former nanny appears intermittently, an attentive and overbearing figure whose presence is both welcome and irritating — a person as apt to smother as to comfort. Jamie’s office mates — one competitive and crass, the other empathetic and insightful — round out the minor characters, refreshingly avoiding the clichés typical of supporting roles.
Crescendo places its characters in moments of impasse and progress that move in fits and starts, moments of adrenaline, moments of stillness. Howat brilliantly and, at times, humorously shows grief as it often is: fogged, disorienting, ebbing and flowing. Loss in all of its complex humanity.
I might have wished for a little more of Caz’s point of view for fuller balance to the narration, but this is a small quibble. Though the theme is somber, it is not a weepy stroll through a garden of grief where everyone is either a saint or a monster.
This book offers a surprising sense of escape and an affirmation that, indeed, the only way out is through. Strongly recommend.
Dancing at the Edge of the World is like being hit by a lightning bolt of intelligence, curiosity, and wit — except the lightning bolt also hands you a cup of tea, sits on something cozy, tucks its legs under, and says, “Sit, we’ve got some things to talk about.”
What I value most about this book is its honesty. It doesn’t try to be definitive or grandiose; instead, it starts a conversation — playful and serious in turn — between the writer and the reader.
This collection represents a slice of Le Guin’s thinking across more than a decade, during which she wrestled with pressing personal and societal questions: norms, literary traditions, and humanity’s relationship with the natural world. It’s a series of forays into ideas about writing, feminism, storytelling, and the world we share. You know, small things like that. The essays and speeches are more exploratory than declarative, making them fascinating and ultimately persuasive.
Highlights include “The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction,” a subversive reimagining of narrative purpose, and the “Bryn Mawr Commencement Address,” which calls for courage and imagination in shaping the world. “Whose Lathe?” is a standout, a brilliant and timely exploration of book banning, as relevant now as it was when she wrote it. It made me want to grab my library card and bellow, errrr, whisper a war cry.
What makes this collection exceptional is the way it bridges the personal and the universal, the writer’s craft and the reader’s world. The slats on that bridge? “How do we live together? What are ways to share the world?” Curious about any of those? Then this is the book for you.
Le Guin’s writing is as lucid and precise as it is poetic and playful. She opens intellectual doors without haranguing, inviting readers to join her. While the collection might feel uneven at times, with some essays lacking cohesion, the diversity of topics reflects her rhythm of thought.
Even in its less polished moments, the book brims with ideas. I love her writing so much I devoured her reviews of books I hadn’t even read and would do so again. Dancing at the Edge of the World is not a handbook or a manifesto — it’s an eddy, tentative yet bold, circling and returning. And if Le Guin stumbles here or there, it’s only because she refuses to stand still.
This is the kind of book that makes you want to pick up a pen — or some other mighty weapon — and face the world, feet firmly planted in whatever world we share.
The Wave in the Mind by Ursula K. Le Guin manages to be both a soothing balm and an electric jolt to the noodle. Beauty, justice, imagination — these timely and timeless essays are steeped in deep respect for writers and storytellers, with Le Guin insisting on honesty, even if that feels like a lot to ask these days.
In this collection of essays, lectures, and reflections, Le Guin offers more brilliant explorations of language, creativity, and the human experience. She moves effortlessly between poetic musings and sharp critiques, always maintaining deep respect for the power of words and the relationship between writers and readers.
The title essay, inspired by Virginia Woolf, likens thought to the rhythm of a wave — nonlinear, rhythmic, wild. Standout pieces include “Being Taken for Granite,” showcasing peak Le Guin wit, and “A Matter of Trust,” which challenges readers to reflect on the ethical responsibilities of storytellers and how to build trust in yourself and beyond (spoiler: write! Then write more!) Another highlight, “Stress-Rhythm in Poetry and Prose,” takes a fascinating, almost scientific approach to language. It’s a linguistic crash course on why words work the way they do. Her discussion of “mumbling” as four unstressed syllables in a row sparked thoughts about how rhythm, stress, and tone shape my humor and communication, both in writing and in spoken word. (To the point that I want to further study linguistics!)
Le Guin’s writing is a cocktail of intellect, warmth, and humor. While the strongest pieces in a collection are often the first, second, and last, this one is threaded with timeless insights into imagination, beauty, and justice from start to finish. The essays succeed in their mission to explore the connections between writing, reading, and living, celebrating imagination as a transformative force. The diversity of topics reflects the rhythm of thought — the wave in the mind, so to speak.
Perhaps most valuable is the book’s honesty. It doesn’t attempt to be definitive or grandiose but instead feels like an intimate conversation, playful and serious in turn. Whether it fully hits the mark depends on each reader, but for me, it absolutely does.
These essays aren’t just about storytelling — they’re about what it means to be an engaged human. The Wave in the Mind is both a celebration of creativity and a call to think critically about how we shape and are shaped by words, stories, and the worlds we create. More of this vibe, please.
Postcards from the Edge is a book written (and clearly semi-lived) by someone who didn’t entirely know what they were doing — and had a hell of a time doing it anyway. Carrie Fisher’s novel tackles serious topics like addiction, recovery, mental health, and fame, but keeps colliding with her brilliant, twisted sense of humor. Thank God for that.
The book is sharp, deep, and honest. It’s abrupt and awkward at times, but breathtakingly well-written if you love dry, self-deprecating (and other-deprecating) humor. And let’s face it, who wouldn’t want to read about showbiz in the 80s — gloriously dank, glittery, and pretending not to be a cesspool?
The story follows Suzanne Vale, a self-deprecating actress navigating rehab, sobriety, and the tangled threads of fame and family. Delivered through a mix of journal entries, letters, and third-person perspectives, the narrative feels like an intimate conversation with someone both smarter and funnier than you, though you’re grateful for it anyway. Fisher’s wit is her superpower, turning even the darkest moments into something dazzling. Her descriptions of people and places are blisteringly precise:
“I shot through my twenties like a luminous thread through a dark needle, blazing toward my destination: Nowhere.”
Her ability to capture mood and anxiety in a single sentence is unparalleled:
“Remember what it was like when you’d be getting ready to jump rope… two people were turning it, and you were waiting for exactly the right moment to jump in? I feel like that all the time.”
Fisher’s skill at drawing character, setting, and mood with just a few brushstrokes is stunning. Weirdly, sadly, it was the story itself that fells flat for me. The story read like the novelization of a one-woman show, and while I haven’t seen the movie, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s one of those rare cases where the film surpasses the book (*ducks*).
Fisher’s writing is dry to the point of dehydration — my kind of writing. And while I admire Fisher as a performer and writer and human with uncanny self-awareness, underneath it all is pain she never hides. By the end, I wanted to hug her and bring her soup. Perhaps that was the goal. Clever girl.
The novel wobbles, but Suzanne’s voice remains steady. It’s a vivid snapshot of the 80s and the gritty glamour of showbiz. If the plot occasionally falters, the characters and quips more than make up for it.
This was one of those months when books held fast and made claims on a corner of my inner world. It’s cramped in there and I probably should Marie Kondo the place, but for now, these books are welcome to squat in my brain corners and bring me joy.
This was not just a “hey, nice book” kind of month, but the kind where at least two of these are straight-up shoe-ins for my end-of-year Best Of list.
The silvery thread binding these books together is that they are all about the act of storytelling, how sometimes that’s the only way to get through. Or in. Or out.
I’ve been reshaped by these works.
Which is all just to say these are the books that I enjoyed enough to finish in the last month:
If you’re going to take on Twain, you’d better bring the goods.
Percival Everett not only brings the goods, the whole goods, and nothing but the goods — he delivers them with such unapologetic brilliance that you’ll find yourself wondering, ‘How has no one done this before?’ And then you realize — no one else could have done this.
I am thunderstruck.
James is not merely a retelling of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, it’s a complete reimagining where Jim — now James — steps into the center of the narrative. He is now a man with his own inner life, vibrant with intellect and grappling with the cruel complexities of his life. Cerebral, flawed, painfully conscious of what it means to exist in his circumstances, James becomes a moral force.
Everett critiques both the historical portrayal of Jim in Twain’s original work and contemporary issues of race. The narrative blends humor, satire, pathos, and sharp commentary, with James often confronting his situation with a deep sense of survival, wit, and profound love for his family. It’s brutal and beautiful and fresh.
I marveled at the fullness of James as a character. He is no longer a sidekick, no longer just a figure for Huck to bounce off. He’s no “Mary Sue,” either. He’s deeply human. If this book isn’t immediately welcomed into the American Canon, I’m not sure what would be.
There’s also a lot of philosophy thrown in there because YEAH, THERE IS. And it works. Some folks have expressed displeasure with how the book’s toe-dips into farce seem abrupt. Welcome to literature. Think of it like a journey. A journey on a river of some sort. Where there are twists and turns and sometimes the river is gentle and sometimes… Do we see where I’m going with this?
This is a genre-bending boundary-pusher for sure, and any liberties it takes with the original story are just and satisfying. To tackle Twain requires a certain audacity, and to succeed requires genius. Everett has both in abundance.
There is no doubt that schools will use this as a parallel text when studying Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
There is also no doubt this will be on my Best Of 2024 list.
All towns should have a bookstore, don’t you think?
Island bookstore owner A.J. Fikry is definitely not having the time of his life. Grieving the loss of his wife, struggling to keep his bookstore afloat, self-medicating, bereft of passion and connection. However — hooray! — everything begins changing when a toddler is left in his bookstore. What follows are not thunderous events but a soft, deliberate opening of life.
This is a novel about a community only as flawed and fragile as the people within it, and A.J.’s bookstore becomes the fulcrum for everything: grief, love, indiscretions, second chances. It’s life, piece by tangled piece.
Perhaps by dint of being set in a bookstore, the book celebrates not just the joy of reading but the necessity of it. This sweet novel is a love letter to books, bookstores, and the communities that form around them. It’s well-paced, though it takes a few big leaps in time that might make you a little woozy. Still, the storytelling works beautifully. Zevin is deeply respectful of and never underestimates her audience, a skill also showcased in her Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow. Zevin’s storytelling is tight and purposeful — there’s not a wasted word or superfluous scene. Every moment builds A.J.’s world and relationships, while also pulling the reader into the life of the bookstore and town, stitched together by books.
The quirky main and secondary characters feel like they’ve stepped out of an exceptionally good sitcom — believable, loveable, and tinged with just enough sorrow to avoid being treacly. Literary references throughout the novel are sweet treats, and A.J.’s book notes are lovely touches. It eventually is made clear who these notes are for and how they tie into the plot, which made me hug the book to my chest. Yes, I’m weird. It’s fine.
Ultimately, The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry is a love story. I’ve said before that all stories are love stories. This one isn’t sappy, disappointing, or cynical. Neither are real jaw-dropping twists here; instead, the story unfolds in small, quiet ways. This book may not cause you to bolt upright, but little moments you enjoyed will stay with you long after you’ve finished.
Zevin’s writing is self-assured, and she trusts the reader to keep up and fill in the gaps. It’s zippy. It’s wackadoo. And it’s a reminder that sometimes, a good book — and a good life — are about those quiet, small moments that happen when you crack things open.
It’s hygge at its finest.
All stories should come with a bookstore, don’t you think? After all, “a place ain’t a place without a bookstore.”
In Michigan earlier this year, I picked up a bag of Limited Edition Cherry Barbecue potato chips. (Stay with me.) They were…peculiar. Sweet, spicy, not quite balanced, all in a way that made me go, “What is happening?” I wasn’t even sure if I liked them. But two sittings later? Gone. Gone like yesterday’s regrets. And here’s the kicker: I’d eat those weird-a$$ chips again fistful by fistful in a heartbeat.
This was not unlike reading Nothing to See Here by Kevin Wilson. At first, it’s strange. This cannot hold up. But it does. You keep reading. You’re hooked. And suddenly you’ve finished the book, wondering what just happened and, more importantly, HOW DID THAT WORK AND WHERE CAN YOU GET MORE?
And by “you” I mean “me.”
I’d read this weird-a$$ book again in a heartbeat.
(*extreme Stefon voice*) Nothing to See Here has (almost) everything — friendship, responsibility, and spontaneous human combustion. It’s strange, dark, and hilarious. Wilson somehow makes these fire children funny and tragic all at once. They’re weird, the narrator is weird. It’s all weird and it works.
After reading a string of heavy, intense novels, Nothing to See Here gave me literary whiplash. Let me tell you, though, I love a funny book that writes its own rules, that’s wholly original, and doesn’t feel like it’s trying too hard to be ultra-cool or different. It just is. Wilson pulls this off.
Our narrator, Lillian, is sharp-tongued, jaded, and just messed up enough to carry a story. She may be even a little much…her vocal fry practically buzzes off the page. And I couldn’t get enough of her.
If I have one complaint, it’s that I wanted just a bit more at the end. A glimmer of what’s next, a sense of where these characters might land after the final page. But then again, that’s life, right? Stories don’t always wrap up neatly.
And that’s the thing — the story Lillian believes about herself is one of failure — she’s convinced that a mistake in high school sealed her fate as a woman with no prospects. Caring for these kids forces her to rewrite that story, imagining herself as someone capable of love and responsibility. Madison, the children’s mother and Lillian’s high school friend, on the other hand, has crafted a flawless public image. Both women’s stories are their emotional shields until they’re forced to confront the truth.
The children’s story is different — they’ve been treated like secrets, their combustive condition dismissed or explained away by crackpot theories. Wilson handles all this with great humor and pathos. It’s crackers and I felt like it shouldn’t work, but good grief, I devoured the book in two sittings.
Can outrageously great writing elevate an otherwise good book? Yes, it can. Exhibits A and B: Yes, it can. Exhibits A and B:
“You don’t believe the sky is falling until a chunk of it falls on you.”
“You’d be surprised how quickly the mind goes soggy in the absence of other people. One person alone is not a full person: we exist in relation to others. I was one person: I risked becoming no person.”
Atwood’s writing remains as sharp as ever, resulting in The Testaments punching above its weight. Did I love it as much as The Handmaid’s Tale? No. The Testaments feels a little like a victory lap, more epilogue than continuation, an attempt to close open loops.
The story picks up 15 years after The Handmaid’s Tale, with three narrators: Aunt Lydia (yes, the one we know and loathe), plus two new characters — Agnes, a Gilead-born girl, and Daisy, a Canadian teenager. Credit where it’s due — Atwood gifts each with a voice that feels real.
Aunt Lydia’s chapters were my favorites. We learn more about Gilead’s power structures and Lydia’s own twisted brand of resistance. Meanwhile, Agnes and Daisy get tangled up in a plot to take down the regime. The stakes are high…or should be. Lydia is fascinating — a judge turned ruthless enforcer turned murkily-motivated saboteur — but I wanted more of the internal fallout as she took on those roles. I WANT MORE RECKONING, please and thank you.
Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Atwood is telling us that authoritarianism rots you from the inside — and that Lydia, like the rest of us, is susceptible and sometimes their fates aren’t satisfying. But oof, I wanted to see more of that rot unfold on the page.
The two teens’ intertwined stories had some moments — like hearing about young brides-to-be inside Gilead — but the stakes didn’t quite hit the way they did in The Handmaid’s Tale. The glimpses of life outside Gilead didn’t pack quite the punch I was hoping for.
Am I unfairly holding The Testaments up to an impossible standard? MAYBE. I wanted more machinations, more urgency, more visceral danger, more fire. The story felt pale next to the original, and the big “reveal” at the end didn’t quite land.
Or maybe I’m numbed because *mumbles something about 2024.*
Honestly, I’d have loved this to be only Aunt Lydia’s story from start to finish (bring in the teens, sure, but through her eyes.)
That being said, there were enough satisfying moments to answer a few lingering questions left over from The Handmaid’s Tale and for me to finish the book (and I’m quite brilliant at not finishing books.)
A worthwhile read for Atwood fans — fanatical and casual.
The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien
My boys and I read this at the same time. Them for class, me for connection. This is not a book one reads for pleasure, but it is a reminder that sometimes a great book stops being a story and becomes a reflection.
The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien is a collection of twenty-two interconnected short stories revolving around a platoon of American soldiers during the Vietnam War and the literal and emotional burdens each soldier carries, if only to remember they are human.
This is a demanding read — not because it’s obtuse or buried in authorial swoops and swirls, but because O’Brien splays himself open, unblinkingly and with an honesty that begs for his precise language.
O’Brien uses a blend of autobiographical details and fictionalization to share stories of the haunting complexities of war and its aftermath.
One of the central themes is storytelling — how stories help people cope, give meaning to their experiences, and preserve memory. O’Brien uses his characters to explore the meaning of truth in both war and writing, especially during and after times of extreme conflict. Against this backdrop, we witness (sometimes unwillingly) the worst and best of human nature. It is deep and disturbing, and hoo boy, did it earn its status as a finalist for the Pulitzer.
Read this when you are in a place to do so, if only because the writing and structure are elegant and majestic. But also, read it when you can stomach the violence and sorrow. The title story may be one of the best-crafted pieces I’ve ever read. The non-linear organization of the book is a lot like memory itself — asynchronous, spiraling, sometimes perseverating, sometimes rushing ahead because that’s the only speed one can self-preserve and still tell the truth. But ultimately, even that rushing is just procrastination from confronting the inevitable.
This is also most definitely going on my Best Of 2024 list.
Jackie Pick 