Im not sure if I understood the thrust of this book. Unlike The Liars Club, the vignettes here scatter and flit and never coalesce. Perhaps that was the point; adding meaning and a through-line to life is something we make up after the fact. Its not there in the experiencing of it. Maybe the final page just left me with a “thats it”? And maybe its impacted by the strange, ephemeral quality of this week.

I don’t know. Like her other memoir, her insights and language are striking and lovely. I still enjoyed the read, although I closed the book on the last sentence feeling more hollow than anything, in spite of the final attempt at a conclusion.