I feel like all short story collections are an invitation into the author’s psyche in a way that even novels aren’t. And also that is a dangerous assumption about narratives that are, even when they feel raw, crafted.
This book is hard to talk about in the way that paintings are. It just kind of happens to you and then you’re left thinking “huh”.
And also “Estranged Children of Storybook Houses” was stunning in every sense of the word.