Dorothy Parker's criticism of books she hated was always better, far better, than that of books she liked. It is, I suppose, natural to be somewhat articulate about a book that touches us emotionally, as most of us (even writers) are pretty inarticulate with our emotions. So I feel a little flummoxed about what to say here and have been putting off writing this post for a few days. What I can I say about it? It's really, really, really good, y'all.
At a metaphysical level, the book is about memory--those memories we forget (and yet know we forgot them), the ones we carry with us daily, and those we make up. Words, especially written words, usually fail us when trying to confront and compare our memories with reality (or others' perceived realities). But the characters and the book don't roll on the floor with anguish over this situation, they generally just get on with it, because what else are you going to do? Really. You just try to ignore everything, drink a bit too much, talk to ghosts, and leave your family, trying to avoid suicide. This may not be honorable and truth-seeking, but it's how we do, no?
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