I started to read that last year. I can’t remember if I finished it or not, and I probably didn’t. I just came across this in the NYT Books section. I remember that I thought the book was sad. I started reading it because I had read somewhere else that it was one of the greatest books ever written and that she was one of the greatest writers alive today. I suspect that I did not have enough patience to read it back then. After reading parts of that NYT discussion, I feel like going back to it. I do remember images from the book though, images that I formed in my mind when I read it. And I still have those images now, a year later. It’s just sort of lonely and dry and dusty, and lifeless. Barren.
