My professor said we didn't have to read the whole thing. I read the whole thing. I expected a memoir, was told to expect essays, and found essays telling autobiographical narratives, aka memoirs. What a wild coinkydink since I'm taking a class about memoirs.
These essays are brilliant. They're well argued and quite beautiful to read too. The order in which the essays are printed is also very helpful, because you find a broader narrative unfolding of this woman's entire life as she presents a series of curated slices. She uses autobiography as a means of confessional, to justify her past mistakes and testify to her own truths. Memory is imperfect, right? There's no way she remembers every single piece of supposedly true dialogue that she wrote here. But it doesn't matter if the details are fudged for the sake of narrative, because the reader really cares that the author tells her emotional truth, which she does to no limit (besides the <150 pages of print). That's the beauty of memoirs, or so I've learned. Honesty is the second best policy, vulnerability is the main rule of the road. Nobody cares whether it really took five minutes, six minutes, or seven minutes for somebody to cook rice. These made-up details help us move to the author's world.
I love her, I love my memoir class, I love to read good books!!!!!