This short, selective memoir by a middle-aged Connecticut novelist, teacher, and screenwriter is a collection of disconnected philosophical musings about her past life, marriages, travels, family life, and interactions with others, including several well-known entertainers and other writers. With no chapter divisions, it is divided into retrospective reflections mostly only one to four pages long.
There is nothing very profound here, but there is an abundance of quirky wise observations delivered in flowing conversational prose that is easy to read. As I read on, however, I was struck by the excessive nostalgia, self-analysis, doubts, and introspection that seems to a common feature of autobiographical writing of creative artistic types. This is the author’s fourth memoir, which speaks volumes about the emotional roller coasters that such literati apparently enjoy riding and sharing. Who in the twenty-first century keeps volumes of daily journals unless they expect to exploit them for commercial gain or in a vain solipsistic hope to be remembered forever?
One typical quote: “It may be that when we no longer know what to do that our real work begins and that when we no longer know which way to go that our real journey begins.” This one reminded me of one attributed to John Lennon: “Life is what happens while you are planning something else.”
A bit disappointing. ⭐️⭐️
Thanks,
The New Yorker.
The Passionate Reader 