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Lana Del Rey totally read this over and over on the Greyhound from New York to Los Angeles

Poetry so beautiful you may be compelled to quiet friends when they're over and read at random from the book...

You thought New York City in the 1970s was a hotbed of rampant gay sex? How about Havana in the 1960s?

I'm not someone who loves Faulkner, but I appreciate the space he occupies. A striking read, even if not the most enjoyable one.

"Our relationship was spectral. I don't want to talk about love, and I'm reluctant to talk about desire. We had only a few things in common: some films, some folkloric figurines, the way he liked to tell tales of desperation, the way I liked to listen to them."

"Here's a trick I found for how to finally get some sleep. I sleep in my husband's bed. That way the empty bed I look at is my own."

But why can't every story be as fleshed-out and thoughtful as "Mon Plaisir"? Miranda, Miranda, Miranda. Consistency is your friend, girl.

So. Good.

An utterly fabulous title belies a rather disappointing book.

Karen...girl, your structuring is a mess.

"Faith was a power that arose from inside you, I thought, and doubt was exogenous, a speck in your eye. A black mote from the sad world of adults."

Rereading before the movie comes out like everyone else in America!

From beautiful to boring to beautiful again.