The energy that shot out of the pages kept me gripped late into the night for weeks. The book took me far, far away before slingshotting me back to a here and now that felt strange and familiar. We open in the 90s on the side of an Idaho mountain where “cliffs appeared suddenly [and] feral horses, belonging to my grandpa, ran wild over thick banks of water hemlock, and there were more than a few rattlesnakes.” Tara tells her tale in endless tight, gripping stories from her vantage point as the youngest of seven in a large family with an extremist father who works at “scrapping” and doesn’t trust the government or doctors or schools. (“I may as well surrender my kids to the devil himself as send them down the road to that school.”) No one goes to school. They wander, work, get hit in the head by metal tossed at them by their dad, fall off skids high in the air on unstable forklifts their dad is steering and crack their heads on concrete, get into car accidents in the middle of nights in their car full of kids lying everywhere with no seatbelts, and drive with their mom to high-risk pregnancies helping deliver babies for people who would rather die than go to a hospital. This book isn’t as good as everyone says—it’s better. Slap to the face, splash to the face. And it’s two books, really. The first half you’re living a wild, thrilling, confusing, loving, frenzied upbringing of self-discovery and the second you’re with Tara as she goes to BYU then Cambridge then Harvard then Cambridge again. Together they make a sour-sweet-sour read that is a wondrous eyes-open summary of the supremely talented Tara Westover’s first 34 years. A take-your-breath-away book.