I find it hard to believe that this book receives good reviews. The tone of the narrator is full of pathos, and her reflections are very shallow. There's meat in the material, but she doesn't bother digging for it. Her reader, like her narrator, must be satisfied to view the characters who people her world as completely flat, with little connection, insight, or conclusion given to the events that unfold. A girl who wears sweaters and knits art. A dead junkie ex-boyfriend. Not inherently boring figures, but when handled with the shallow critical observations of the protagonist, the result is stupefying, and only the readability and brevity of the work urges its conclusion.
Maybe, it is something to do with Daphne's 5os, 60s mentality, adjusting itself to the wacky new world of the 70s. The narrator often wants to ask a question, but usually refrains. She wants to speak, but isn't asked, and sees the with-holding of personal information in herself and others as polite, something that keeps her (and others) from feeling uncomfortable. Maybe because, to people like her mother, to talk about bad things was to be seen as a complaint, and so her reserve is not only tactful, it is demonstrative of strength. But I like my narrators to say something, or at least, if they must keep it from the others in their book world, to still think it privately in words, and share it with me.