This memoir of a year spent in an Italian village grew on me slowly. Once I began to read it steadily rather than reading it intermittently, I fell in love with the writing and the writer. It's a meditation on loss...so many of this writer's friends have died in the past decade. And her parents are living in assisted living outside of Philadelphia. This is the same writer who filled her novel "The Archivist" with loss and poetry, mainly Eliot's poetry, in that case. In this memoir she quotes Dickinson, Whitman, Plath, her friend, Jason Shinder. So many passages to save and reread. It's a sad book, but filled with the life of this village, her mother and father, her husband, Antonio, the feral cats, the mountainside. It's a beautiful example of writing "aimlessly," of finding the point as the writing unfolds, as the life is lived.