Returned to read the continuation of my life, more of the same and I loved it just as much, maybe more. This book is nice when I let it flow over me. Hejinian seems to conclude that an autobiography can never tell the truth of a life, but that doesn’t mean words might still manage to do something —Each sentence is a window into a life, even though it doesn’t ever explain it. It’s so rhythmically written that it flows over like music and occasionally gives a feeling of insight that slips away again, almost like when you wake up from a dream where you were sure you learnt something, but don’t remember what.