It is one of the those books that does not need to end. The scope of the page does not create a firm boundary of action or event; the book feels like it continues, even after the words cease. Never were a series of unpredictable or “important” events catalogued, but rather a feeling was captured, draped over some things that happened; mundanity poked and prodded until it formed the essential shape of a literary document...
Read MoreIn regards to our nameless narrator, she is so unlikable that at first I believed the book was going to be a coda on the prevalence, or perhaps inevitability, of choosing to excuse, overlook, or even come to appreciate the POV perspective of a story no matter how awful the thoughts or actions of the protagonist turn out to be. But no, the book is an internal journey through grief, not a media reflection on empathy; it encompasses how we spend time, surely, but moreso that the “how” matters less than acknowledging that each moment is unique, worthy of said acknowledgment.
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