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Is There God after Prince?: Dispatches from an Age of Last Things
Essays considering what it means to love art, culture, and people in an age of accelerating disaster.
This is a book about loving things—books, songs, people—in the shadow of a felt, looming disaster. Through lyrical, funny, heart-wrenching essays, Peter Coviello considers pieces of culture across a fantastic range, setting them inside the vivid scenes of friendship, dispute, romance, talk, and loss, where they enter our lives. Alongside him, we reencounter movies like The Shining, shows like The Sopranos; videos; poems; novels by Sam Lipsyte, Sally Rooney, and Paula Fox; as well as songs by Joni Mitchell, Gladys Knight, Steely Dan, Pavement, and the much-mourned saint of Minneapolis, Prince.
Navigating an overwhelming feeling that Coviello calls “endstrickenness,” he asks what it means to love things in calamitous times, when so much seems to be shambling toward collapse. Balancing comedy and anger, exhilaration and sorrow, Coviello illuminates the strange ways the things we cherish help us to hold on to life and to its turbulent joys. Is There God after Prince? shows us what twenty-first-century criticism can be, and how it might speak to us, in a time of ruin, in an age of “Last Things.”
This is a book about loving things—books, songs, people—in the shadow of a felt, looming disaster. Through lyrical, funny, heart-wrenching essays, Peter Coviello considers pieces of culture across a fantastic range, setting them inside the vivid scenes of friendship, dispute, romance, talk, and loss, where they enter our lives. Alongside him, we reencounter movies like The Shining, shows like The Sopranos; videos; poems; novels by Sam Lipsyte, Sally Rooney, and Paula Fox; as well as songs by Joni Mitchell, Gladys Knight, Steely Dan, Pavement, and the much-mourned saint of Minneapolis, Prince.
Navigating an overwhelming feeling that Coviello calls “endstrickenness,” he asks what it means to love things in calamitous times, when so much seems to be shambling toward collapse. Balancing comedy and anger, exhilaration and sorrow, Coviello illuminates the strange ways the things we cherish help us to hold on to life and to its turbulent joys. Is There God after Prince? shows us what twenty-first-century criticism can be, and how it might speak to us, in a time of ruin, in an age of “Last Things.”
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293 pages, Kindle Edition
Published October 25, 2023
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Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews
July 18, 2023
Is There God After Prince? by Peter Coviello is a collection of essays that, while being less academic than a lot of criticism, still has the language, periodically, of academia. That does not keep this from being both accessible and interesting, it just makes it a little deeper (whatever that means to you).
I'll get the one little negative out of the way and explain why it isn't a big deal. There is a bit of repetition from essay to essay, which might bother some readers if they plan to read straight through. Two reasons should keep the potential annoyance from bothering you too much. First, these are essays, meant to be self-contained prose pieces. Closely coupled with that is the second, some of these were previously published (though likely reworked for this collection) which means there were no other Coviello essays to have possibly just read. So when you read these, just start every one as a new text, not as part of the whole that is the book.
Okay, what I particularly enjoyed in these essays is what I also enjoyed in one of his previous books, Vineland Reread, namely offering perspective with the acknowledgement that not only will yours be different, but that in a different point in his own life it will be different. A song I heard in 1976 then again in 1996, then 2016 will all mean different things to me, though each successive hearing will also bring back memories. My high school senior self in '76, my twice divorced but in grad school self in '96, and my "OMG I'm almost 60" self in '16. Each understanding of the song is valid, even if no longer valid for me now. And don't even ask about the deterioration of my dance moves!
Coviello has some similar musical tastes as I do, though I certainly don't fully agree with his assessment (only semi-serious, I hope) of the boomer generation. While I don't generally think of the (sometimes heated but usually friendly) debates about the merits of a song/film/book/etc as fights (his preferred term) I can see why he might choose that term. At most I might use argument, but for most of my life and places I lived, fights were physical and the most physical mine have been involves the possible tossing of a drink, but that is another story. The point is, if you have ever passionately argued with friends about the merits of something, almost anything, knowing that you're both being hyperbolic but still insisting on having the exchange, then you will appreciate these essays.
I would also suggest reading these more with an eye toward understanding where he is coming from rather than whether you agree or disagree. That will allow you, even if you do disagree with something, to at least find some common ground. It is that common ground from which you can then reflect on times in your life that might be similar, or feelings that are relatable.
Since I am a big Prince fan I absolutely loved every mention of him and his music. I also added a couple books to my list of ones to find and read, and I revisited some songs and artists I haven't listened to in a while. So there is an odd mix of nostalgia and our current world, how do I now hear that 1976 song when so many things, politically, socially, culturally seem precariously close to some cliff over the abyss?
Reviewed from a copy made available by the publisher via NetGalley.
I'll get the one little negative out of the way and explain why it isn't a big deal. There is a bit of repetition from essay to essay, which might bother some readers if they plan to read straight through. Two reasons should keep the potential annoyance from bothering you too much. First, these are essays, meant to be self-contained prose pieces. Closely coupled with that is the second, some of these were previously published (though likely reworked for this collection) which means there were no other Coviello essays to have possibly just read. So when you read these, just start every one as a new text, not as part of the whole that is the book.
Okay, what I particularly enjoyed in these essays is what I also enjoyed in one of his previous books, Vineland Reread, namely offering perspective with the acknowledgement that not only will yours be different, but that in a different point in his own life it will be different. A song I heard in 1976 then again in 1996, then 2016 will all mean different things to me, though each successive hearing will also bring back memories. My high school senior self in '76, my twice divorced but in grad school self in '96, and my "OMG I'm almost 60" self in '16. Each understanding of the song is valid, even if no longer valid for me now. And don't even ask about the deterioration of my dance moves!
Coviello has some similar musical tastes as I do, though I certainly don't fully agree with his assessment (only semi-serious, I hope) of the boomer generation. While I don't generally think of the (sometimes heated but usually friendly) debates about the merits of a song/film/book/etc as fights (his preferred term) I can see why he might choose that term. At most I might use argument, but for most of my life and places I lived, fights were physical and the most physical mine have been involves the possible tossing of a drink, but that is another story. The point is, if you have ever passionately argued with friends about the merits of something, almost anything, knowing that you're both being hyperbolic but still insisting on having the exchange, then you will appreciate these essays.
I would also suggest reading these more with an eye toward understanding where he is coming from rather than whether you agree or disagree. That will allow you, even if you do disagree with something, to at least find some common ground. It is that common ground from which you can then reflect on times in your life that might be similar, or feelings that are relatable.
Since I am a big Prince fan I absolutely loved every mention of him and his music. I also added a couple books to my list of ones to find and read, and I revisited some songs and artists I haven't listened to in a while. So there is an odd mix of nostalgia and our current world, how do I now hear that 1976 song when so many things, politically, socially, culturally seem precariously close to some cliff over the abyss?
Reviewed from a copy made available by the publisher via NetGalley.
August 27, 2023
My thanks to both NetGalley and the publisher University of Chicago Press for an advanced copy of this collection which looks at the importance of art, well to quote Gordon Sumner, 'When the world is running down you make the best of what's still around'.
I remember a few weeks after 9/11 Entertainment Weekly had a cover asking in big bold letters, did comedy still matter. At the time I thought that was one of the stupidest things I had ever read, and I was an Entertainment Weekly subscriber at the time. I thought back to almost a year earlier when my father had passed away. I was wrecked, lost, confused and out of it. But a few days after the funeral my Mom made a joke about him, and I laughed. Which my Dad loved to do. Which has given George Carlin, the movie Airplane! and even the music of Tina Turner places in my life, my Dad liked them, I hear it think of him, and enjoy them in different ways than I had before. Art has that power, to allow a person to feel emotions, even if the art wasn't created the way you feel them. Peter Coviello, essayist, writer and Professor at the University of Illinois Chicago discusses these feeling and more in his collection Is There God after Prince?: Dispatches from an Age of Last Things, about enjoying the things that make us feel, even as the world gets uglier and one day closer to ending.
The book begins with a celebration of music, discussing a band that I was unfamiliar with, the band Wussy, performing a song entitled 'Teenage Wasteland'. Coviello writes about the lead singer's ability to entrance, to lock the listener in to the lyrics and feel emotions and freedoms that are hard to describe. The power of art is here, and Coviello lists other bands, songs, movies and books that give that same feeling, feelings that might only be true for him, but strong feelings nonetheless. The first essay is a look at the artist Prince, how at one of the lowest points in Coviello's life, Prince brought him not only a killer party, but a love and a family. Coviello discusses how he found out Prince died, the feelings that he and others had, and also how these feelings can still help a person get through. And why art is important, even as things don't go the way anyone seems to want them.
The book is a collection of previously published essays so some ideas might be repeated. However Coviello is a very good writer, with a lot to say , with a lot of examples, examples that will open people up to some interesting music, books, and other works. Coviello has similar tastes to me, so I was thrilled finding out new things. Even though this could be considered literary criticism, the writing is more a celebration of what one can enjoy and what one can feel. The style is very conversational, in fact this reminded me a lot of talking about music and books in the store with customers I actually look forward to interacting with. A book that leaves the reader with a lot to think about, and even more to explore.
I remember a few weeks after 9/11 Entertainment Weekly had a cover asking in big bold letters, did comedy still matter. At the time I thought that was one of the stupidest things I had ever read, and I was an Entertainment Weekly subscriber at the time. I thought back to almost a year earlier when my father had passed away. I was wrecked, lost, confused and out of it. But a few days after the funeral my Mom made a joke about him, and I laughed. Which my Dad loved to do. Which has given George Carlin, the movie Airplane! and even the music of Tina Turner places in my life, my Dad liked them, I hear it think of him, and enjoy them in different ways than I had before. Art has that power, to allow a person to feel emotions, even if the art wasn't created the way you feel them. Peter Coviello, essayist, writer and Professor at the University of Illinois Chicago discusses these feeling and more in his collection Is There God after Prince?: Dispatches from an Age of Last Things, about enjoying the things that make us feel, even as the world gets uglier and one day closer to ending.
The book begins with a celebration of music, discussing a band that I was unfamiliar with, the band Wussy, performing a song entitled 'Teenage Wasteland'. Coviello writes about the lead singer's ability to entrance, to lock the listener in to the lyrics and feel emotions and freedoms that are hard to describe. The power of art is here, and Coviello lists other bands, songs, movies and books that give that same feeling, feelings that might only be true for him, but strong feelings nonetheless. The first essay is a look at the artist Prince, how at one of the lowest points in Coviello's life, Prince brought him not only a killer party, but a love and a family. Coviello discusses how he found out Prince died, the feelings that he and others had, and also how these feelings can still help a person get through. And why art is important, even as things don't go the way anyone seems to want them.
The book is a collection of previously published essays so some ideas might be repeated. However Coviello is a very good writer, with a lot to say , with a lot of examples, examples that will open people up to some interesting music, books, and other works. Coviello has similar tastes to me, so I was thrilled finding out new things. Even though this could be considered literary criticism, the writing is more a celebration of what one can enjoy and what one can feel. The style is very conversational, in fact this reminded me a lot of talking about music and books in the store with customers I actually look forward to interacting with. A book that leaves the reader with a lot to think about, and even more to explore.
Read
November 19, 2023Sometimes you find a book that elucidates many of those questions and beliefs that have come to loom large in your life. Those questions and beliefs that you can formulate or explain only partly until you read something like “Is There God…”
This happened with me reading about those songs and albums that imprinted Coviello when his age and/or circumstances left him vulnerable to impression. I had the same happen with me albeit the playlist was different.
The best essays in “Is There God…” resonate this way. I loved the essay on The Shining”. The piece on “The Sopranos”, perhaps because my ancestors were New England Mill Town Italian, not North Jersey, just seemed like hubris. (I didn’t watch the show, and, generally, don’t trust TV.) And the final essay, even though it reflected particular experiences of our Covid Captivity, crowed too long and too loudly on his latest (lasting?) spouse. It wasn’t particularly convincing, or necessary.
I had the good fortune to read “So Called Normal People” just before receiving the November 23, 2023 issue of the New York Review of Books with Namwali Serpell’s article on the genre of “Hit Me, Baby” lit in which Sally Rooney figures prominently.
This was a thoughtful collection of essays for the end times—The Enstrickenness, though I began to wonder about our infatuation with the looming demise of our existence (or our current way of life). What if it is not the end? It is change, certainly, but what if we pull out of this seemingly inevitable crash? And, if we don’t, who are these warning tomes historical record for?
Both “Is There God…” and another book I recently read, “Dirtbag, Massachusetts,” use the second person. Coviello uses it effectively to draw memories and experience out of the reader, harkening to music the reader may have heard, or other cultural or interpersonal experiences the reader may share with the author. The author of “Dirtbag…”, Fitzgerald’s use, however, harkens only to information the reader may have already gleaned about the author himself. It forces an ingratiating familiarity upon the reader (or this reader). All of which is just a comment of the effectiveness of second person in varying instances.
Coviello is a learned, literate writer. Even if I don’t agree with everything he writes, (I mean, I’ve never met this Julie he speaks of—can she really be as wonderful as he says?), I am eager to hear him out.
This happened with me reading about those songs and albums that imprinted Coviello when his age and/or circumstances left him vulnerable to impression. I had the same happen with me albeit the playlist was different.
The best essays in “Is There God…” resonate this way. I loved the essay on The Shining”. The piece on “The Sopranos”, perhaps because my ancestors were New England Mill Town Italian, not North Jersey, just seemed like hubris. (I didn’t watch the show, and, generally, don’t trust TV.) And the final essay, even though it reflected particular experiences of our Covid Captivity, crowed too long and too loudly on his latest (lasting?) spouse. It wasn’t particularly convincing, or necessary.
I had the good fortune to read “So Called Normal People” just before receiving the November 23, 2023 issue of the New York Review of Books with Namwali Serpell’s article on the genre of “Hit Me, Baby” lit in which Sally Rooney figures prominently.
This was a thoughtful collection of essays for the end times—The Enstrickenness, though I began to wonder about our infatuation with the looming demise of our existence (or our current way of life). What if it is not the end? It is change, certainly, but what if we pull out of this seemingly inevitable crash? And, if we don’t, who are these warning tomes historical record for?
Both “Is There God…” and another book I recently read, “Dirtbag, Massachusetts,” use the second person. Coviello uses it effectively to draw memories and experience out of the reader, harkening to music the reader may have heard, or other cultural or interpersonal experiences the reader may share with the author. The author of “Dirtbag…”, Fitzgerald’s use, however, harkens only to information the reader may have already gleaned about the author himself. It forces an ingratiating familiarity upon the reader (or this reader). All of which is just a comment of the effectiveness of second person in varying instances.
Coviello is a learned, literate writer. Even if I don’t agree with everything he writes, (I mean, I’ve never met this Julie he speaks of—can she really be as wonderful as he says?), I am eager to hear him out.
October 19, 2024
This is often . . . kind of a lot. But being kind of a lot is more or less the theme that weaves the essays together. Coviello is interested in the ways that passions for music, books, movies, and so on, enlivens us, binds us in the kinds of intense relationships that weather decades, a cruel world, and so on.
I found the later essays rougher going, and not just because they concern 2016 onward through the first year of the pandemic (although that's certainly a recipe for rough going). The connections the author is trying to make seem more tenuous and less compelling, at least to me.
I should say, though, that I did read this from end to end, and there's no imperative, necessarily, to do so. dipping in and out of individual parts or chapters is absolutely a viable options, and taking breaks might have rendered me more receptive to some that fell flat for me, but that's now how bathtub reading goes.
I found the later essays rougher going, and not just because they concern 2016 onward through the first year of the pandemic (although that's certainly a recipe for rough going). The connections the author is trying to make seem more tenuous and less compelling, at least to me.
I should say, though, that I did read this from end to end, and there's no imperative, necessarily, to do so. dipping in and out of individual parts or chapters is absolutely a viable options, and taking breaks might have rendered me more receptive to some that fell flat for me, but that's now how bathtub reading goes.
November 3, 2024
*Is There God after Prince? Dispatches from an Age of Last Things* by Peter Coviello is a heartfelt exploration of the power of art, culture, and connection in times of uncertainty and looming disaster. Through a series of essays, Coviello reflects on how the things we love—songs, books, movies, and people—become anchors in a world that feels increasingly fragile.
Coviello's essays are a blend of humor, sorrow, and deep critical engagement, as he navigates through a wide range of cultural touchstones, from Prince to Joni Mitchell, *The Sopranos* to *The Shining*. These essays are not just about the works themselves, but about how they intersect with the most intimate moments of life—friendship, love, loss, and the ever-present sense of "endstrickenness" that pervades our current age.
Thank you to the publishers and NetGalley for the opportunity to review a temporary digital ARC in exchange for an unbiased review.
Coviello's essays are a blend of humor, sorrow, and deep critical engagement, as he navigates through a wide range of cultural touchstones, from Prince to Joni Mitchell, *The Sopranos* to *The Shining*. These essays are not just about the works themselves, but about how they intersect with the most intimate moments of life—friendship, love, loss, and the ever-present sense of "endstrickenness" that pervades our current age.
Thank you to the publishers and NetGalley for the opportunity to review a temporary digital ARC in exchange for an unbiased review.
July 14, 2025
A collection of essays that are sometimes aggravating in their overwrought, fawning praise of contemporary cultural artifacts, yet regularly insightful and reassuring. Clearly a work of academic criticism-turned-popular (I say this admiringly and aspirationally), I felt like I got inside Coviello’s mind. The last essay “Exit Wounds” was a standout, as was the title essay.
December 25, 2023
Really well-written, but much juxtaposition of similar material - powerful writing ultimately doesn't overcome that, and it can be a slog in places.
July 10, 2024
The (University of Chicago Press) book fell apart in my hands as I was reading it -- the first signature came unglued.
About the book, I have more to say than I'll be able to venture here. Its scope dictates that it perform readings of music (Wussy was what got me in), movies, novels as well as affect/queer theory in a topology of what Coviello refers to as an "endstrickenness," that runs through present day American culture. A Whitman scholar, Coviello is excellent on the "queer child": I once sat in on a seminar he gave at Washington University, in St. Louis, where he excavated the peril of a Rutgers University student-suicide case that read through a New Yorker account, Willa Cather, Jennifer Doyle, Kathryn Bond Stockton, and others -- and that had a room of seventeen students & faculty rapt in engagement. Coviello's readings have a nice way of keeping the topic open to your own sensibilities toward it. The reading here of The Shining, for example, has me buoyed for another viewing of the Kubrick film (that I haven't watched in 44 years), that Coviello argues takes the decisive step of transforming the source material into a story that carefully makes itself adjacent to suppositions of sexual assault in the central relationship between Jack and Danny Torrance.
All this and more to the reader's benefit, but. A comment on style, so let's begin with several sentences from the beginning of an essay on Sally Rooney:
A dozen or so years ago, when she and I still shared a home, I gave to my oldest stepdaughter what I think both of us would now agree was the greatest of Christmas gifts. She had just turned thirteen. I had wrapped, and put under the tree for her to find, the DVD box set of the complete run of My So-Called Life. Those who were for whatever reason wrought-up in the early-ish '90s, tender and susceptible and weepy, will recognize this for the stroke of haphazard genius that it absolutely was.
Because this is an opening about affect, its anecdote ought to signify more precisely than it does. I find it sloppy. Its confiding tone, re: family life, ought to be offhanded and effusive, but hyperbole marks its lack of ease. Reader, it says, I ought not worry about getting over with you, but I do. Just so, to whom ought the indulgence of hyperbole confide? For whom? Since the sentences aren't addressed to the stepdaughter, who is addressed by "what I think both of us" -- is it she, the stepdaughter? or is it the reader? Who is the 'you' inside the "us"? What's getting introduced by the anecdote is his affection, of effusive love, for his stepdaughter. Why is it necessary to confide it, just here, with his reader? Again, effusive and hyperbolic are difficult to parse: narrative exposition of his speaker's viewpoint from the verbal style that enacts the effusiveness. The style comes to seem a self-soothing. Such self-soothing would appear to be, again, just so, its claim upon the queer. It raised at large for me whether non-normative family relationships necessarily vouchsafe one's queer identity.
All of this as preface to what Coviello marks thematically as "the disaster of heterosexuality" in Sally Rooney's fiction. But as to that disaster, I just don't get it. In Rooney's work, the bi-sexual appears always to show up the scene. If one wanted "the disaster of heterosexuality" as a subtext, I need listen no farther than Coviello's God Himself, Prince, who dropped a string of such catastrophes in his wake. There's a subtle politiques to Coviello's curation of liberationist art objects for these empathetic readings, nor do I see the empathy as at all feminist. Squaring Coviello's radical secularism with his liberationist impulses can get you wondering about the limits of the queer.
About the book, I have more to say than I'll be able to venture here. Its scope dictates that it perform readings of music (Wussy was what got me in), movies, novels as well as affect/queer theory in a topology of what Coviello refers to as an "endstrickenness," that runs through present day American culture. A Whitman scholar, Coviello is excellent on the "queer child": I once sat in on a seminar he gave at Washington University, in St. Louis, where he excavated the peril of a Rutgers University student-suicide case that read through a New Yorker account, Willa Cather, Jennifer Doyle, Kathryn Bond Stockton, and others -- and that had a room of seventeen students & faculty rapt in engagement. Coviello's readings have a nice way of keeping the topic open to your own sensibilities toward it. The reading here of The Shining, for example, has me buoyed for another viewing of the Kubrick film (that I haven't watched in 44 years), that Coviello argues takes the decisive step of transforming the source material into a story that carefully makes itself adjacent to suppositions of sexual assault in the central relationship between Jack and Danny Torrance.
All this and more to the reader's benefit, but. A comment on style, so let's begin with several sentences from the beginning of an essay on Sally Rooney:
A dozen or so years ago, when she and I still shared a home, I gave to my oldest stepdaughter what I think both of us would now agree was the greatest of Christmas gifts. She had just turned thirteen. I had wrapped, and put under the tree for her to find, the DVD box set of the complete run of My So-Called Life. Those who were for whatever reason wrought-up in the early-ish '90s, tender and susceptible and weepy, will recognize this for the stroke of haphazard genius that it absolutely was.
Because this is an opening about affect, its anecdote ought to signify more precisely than it does. I find it sloppy. Its confiding tone, re: family life, ought to be offhanded and effusive, but hyperbole marks its lack of ease. Reader, it says, I ought not worry about getting over with you, but I do. Just so, to whom ought the indulgence of hyperbole confide? For whom? Since the sentences aren't addressed to the stepdaughter, who is addressed by "what I think both of us" -- is it she, the stepdaughter? or is it the reader? Who is the 'you' inside the "us"? What's getting introduced by the anecdote is his affection, of effusive love, for his stepdaughter. Why is it necessary to confide it, just here, with his reader? Again, effusive and hyperbolic are difficult to parse: narrative exposition of his speaker's viewpoint from the verbal style that enacts the effusiveness. The style comes to seem a self-soothing. Such self-soothing would appear to be, again, just so, its claim upon the queer. It raised at large for me whether non-normative family relationships necessarily vouchsafe one's queer identity.
All of this as preface to what Coviello marks thematically as "the disaster of heterosexuality" in Sally Rooney's fiction. But as to that disaster, I just don't get it. In Rooney's work, the bi-sexual appears always to show up the scene. If one wanted "the disaster of heterosexuality" as a subtext, I need listen no farther than Coviello's God Himself, Prince, who dropped a string of such catastrophes in his wake. There's a subtle politiques to Coviello's curation of liberationist art objects for these empathetic readings, nor do I see the empathy as at all feminist. Squaring Coviello's radical secularism with his liberationist impulses can get you wondering about the limits of the queer.
April 3, 2025
It's been over two months and I still deeply believe this is the best book I've read this entire year. The last book that I remember feeling so emotionally charged with was Hanif Abdurraqib's They Can't Kill Us Until They Kill Us - so that's saying a lot here.
Sometimes when I think of my favorite memories, it's sitting around with friends, family or whoever I'm sharing a space with for an interment moment and laughing, talking about things that we love.
Lately, with my students it's anime or cartoons, music or pop culture moments they love to think they're distracting my time with. With colleagues, it's books, hobbies or tv-shows that we discuss during lunch or when we desperately need to vent about our days post-school dismal. With family, it's the latest episode of Survivor or The Pitt that dramatically and emotionally holds me hostage till it's over.
Coviello tunes into these moments and writes genuinely about his life and the moments in-between. The writing is exceptional vivid and vulnerable in all the right moments. Truly is a great collection of essays that I find myself drawn to rereading eventually again.
It's also revitalized my Prince obsession so thank you tremendously to this book!
Sometimes when I think of my favorite memories, it's sitting around with friends, family or whoever I'm sharing a space with for an interment moment and laughing, talking about things that we love.
Lately, with my students it's anime or cartoons, music or pop culture moments they love to think they're distracting my time with. With colleagues, it's books, hobbies or tv-shows that we discuss during lunch or when we desperately need to vent about our days post-school dismal. With family, it's the latest episode of Survivor or The Pitt that dramatically and emotionally holds me hostage till it's over.
Coviello tunes into these moments and writes genuinely about his life and the moments in-between. The writing is exceptional vivid and vulnerable in all the right moments. Truly is a great collection of essays that I find myself drawn to rereading eventually again.
It's also revitalized my Prince obsession so thank you tremendously to this book!
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