Status Updates From Death Takes Me

I’ve never known a book to confuse me from the FIRST PAGE😐😐😐😐😐😐

Reading this book is so painfully exhausting because it feels like I’m wasting my time. I’m grateful it introduced me to Alejandra Pizarnik, but goddammit is it insufferable.

Was reading actually an occupation? How could she return to reality after spending hours sinking into worlds that didn't exist other than in the imaginings triggered by printed words on the page? Wouldn't someone like her, someone who had read Pizarnik, and who would weep at the thought of one of her poems, as the detective had witnessed multiple times, be the guilty one?