A quick note to say that my review of Jehanne Dubrow’s From the Fever-World should be up at the Rattle website here today. I've been increasingly impressed with Dubrow's talent with each book of poems that she publishes; it was fascinating to revisit her earlier work.
I just finished Ann Patchett's State of Wonder. I both loved it and found it tedious. It's beautiful and lush and filled with poetic description. I also found myself sinking into a sort of tropical torpor as I picked up the book each time to continue slogging through it. Book as dense jungle--if I had to write a pithy description, there it would be.
And then, suddenly, the end arrives, like a hurricane. I won't soon stop thinking about it and puzzling over it. I'm kind of annoyed with the ending, frankly, and I find myself saying that more and more often in the past year. Some would say it's out of frustration that I'm not writing books myself, but I don't think that's it. I'm noticing books that I'm reading that don't quite deserve the endings that they have: they haven't earned them or they come to suddenly or they make no sense or the book just comes crashing to a halt. More on that later, perhaps.
Best Essay Collections of 2017 by Women Authors
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