This is some freaky-ass shit. Maybe I'll give it another read sometime in the future, with the perspective of already having read it a first time. And then maybe I'll be a little more able to sympathize with the author. But I doubt it.
The insight:
Beware: Christa Parravani is pretentious, holier than thou, and sooooooo much better than her dead twin, Cara, was--you know, the twin whom she says in seven different ways was fat without actually using that word. She berates her sister for her heroin addiction--and heavy Klonopin use--but meanwhile, somehow, she's conveniently left out--except for the one single sentence that somehow slipped by someone or other's eyes--that she herself was dating a heroin addict, who was supplying her own sister with H. Later, even though SHE'S swimming in booze and tossing pills down her gullet at an insanely frantic pace, she's still way superior to her sad, dead, fat sister, and still so damn superior to YOU.
There isn't anyone anorexic, freaked-out Parravani doesn't insult or make fun of, whether it's her dead twin, her stepfather, the band Poison who were so absolutely gracious to her in her "grieving"; her students, her sister's ex-boyfriends, her own current husband who once used to work out but now he has a "soft belly"--the guy was a freaking sniper during Desert Storm, what the hell is wrong with this woman? Did she think he would love for her to put that in the book?? For someone so hyper-sensitive, she's actually an insensitive lout, and no one's feelings but her own ever seem to matter. Further, her story is told with such a severe lack of emotion, and just drones on and on, you have to try to put a little feeling into it yourself--and YOU'RE not getting paid to do it.
In a book some have referred to in reviews as describing an "incestuous" relationship with her identical twin--and granted, some of this is a whole hella weird--I can understand the grief, the years of grief, and many of the actions of this sometimes just sick with bereavement, other times just plain nuts, woman. You know, of course, that Keith Richards was only joking about smoking his father's ashes, but this woman, along with the many other things she did with her sister's ashes, mixed some in with her eye makeup and brushed it on her lids. I can understand this, and so much of this, in so many ways, wacked as it is, but Christa Parravani is just a total bitch, and that causes problems for me. And no. Your sister dying is NOT a reason, no matter what, to cheat on your husband--and then do it over and over and over again. And then ask him if you had cancer would he still leave you. And though she's so hugely despondent, and tries several times to kill herself, she still comes across as a self-centered, self-indulgent, cold wretch.
Parravani claims that after years of taking enough mega doses of Valium to kill an elephant, she overcame her addiction to it in five days. And the only bad effect over those days was that her bones hurt and she was freezing in the summertime. Really? Really?? No. It doesn't work that way. Not physically, not mentally, but remember--she's better than you, so of course it was just a drop in the bucket for her.
Christa Parravani carries on several times about having very little money, yet most of her actions make you wonder just exactly what was going with that, because...she doesn't tell you. She supposedly has no savings, couldn't hold down a job, yet she travels all over the world, has tons of clothes and shoes, pays rent...sponges off boyfriends; THAT seems pretty clear.
The writing is stilted, particularly in the way the author refuses to write plainly, because it's apparent she considers herself a literary genius--and a literary snob.
No one is this book is likeable. Not even Cara. Not even Jedediah, though he comes close.
The timeline is nonexistent, making for constant confusion and yet poorer reading.
You'll just have to decide for yourself whether or not you want to take on this massive volume of mind fuck.