I am ready to sit in the middle of the floor and cry for the world. This book totally leaves me drained. There is nothing good in the world . . . also the same re: Life in the Iron Mills, which I just finished yesterday. I don't understand why people have to dwell on the cruelty of the world, the irrational violence of war, the confusion of total fatigue--the times when you forget how to cry . . .
Sheez. I don't presume to censor writers, but I would presume to teach professors how they ought to approach an intimate grief written with bloody hands, so to speak.
Don't go straight from Calvino to O'Brien, ok? Trust me on this one.