A strange book, really, constantly upending expectations, but never straying from a kind of journalistic truth. Hard to fit the messiness of life into such neat prose. This memoir/elegy reads like a very long, extraordinarily well written letter to a friend. A bit Proustian, except without the fiction part. Instead you get a very inside, almost gossipy, look at the life of a gifted poet. And, in the best part of the book, for this reader, inside the poetry circles of UCSD in the nineties. The oddest effect of this book was that it bravely stripped the author of her mystery. Not sure how I feel about that. Feels like kind of a relief actually.