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This is a book about four pretentious little s**ts who call each other pretentious little shits (See above) and pride themselves on knowing the correct way to pronounce the Diane in Diane Arbus. But reliable sources tell her it’s going to turn into a real weep-fest later — which means she’s going to wish she died or was never born.
Self is no stranger to weep-fests (See her prolific posts about Ethel Rosenberg: An American Tragedy. Note also that she just finished reading — last night — Chris Offutt’s mournful tale of family justice in Eastern Kentucky, The Killing Hills.) But she’s getting genuinely anxious. Any minute now she may start tearing the pages of her magazine into tiny confetti.
Nevertheless, she resolves to tackle this massive tome, because she knows/hopes all that emotion it calls forth will prove cathartic and free-ing.
Stay tuned.