A woman attemps to piece together the fragments of a past, unresolved relationship. With compassion, wit and what appears to be candour, she seeks to reveal herself and her past. But we begin to suspect that given the vagaries of memory, any tale retrieved from the past must be a fiction.
Stephen told me the other day I wasn’t a sensitive person and I was all, “Yes I am,” confusing ‘sensitive’ with ‘perceptive’ and ‘thoughtful’ and then started adding, “Just because I’m not going to sit around and blah blah blah feelings all day and cry over puppies and care about things that are just stupid and,” needless to say he was all, “Point proven.” I guess this furthers his cause, as some of the sentences were stabbingly beautiful and I’m always interested in the exploration of faulty memory and revisionist history, but in the end this was mostly a heavy-handed diarist’s lobotomy of feelings and I’m all “Buck up little camper,” let’s move on.
Reading updates
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Started reading
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24 January, 2010:
Finished reading
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24 January, 2010:
Reviewed