I like the sadness. A lot of sadness and longing here, sometimes for no apparent reason.
It felt like a memoir, only sadder. There was beautiful, spare writing throughout with a few absolutely fantastic descriptions ("And beneath those feet, my hands ... worn and rough as cedar bark. Ivory angel feet with opal nails and satin soles. And my hands became his steps."), but Bloom doesn't flaunt her skills, she teases, lets a reader peek. The simplicity of her writing makes such passages leap from the page.

Did I mention the book is a little sad? It is. Perhaps so much so because the narrator (who is sometimes the narrator and sometimes not, as the perspective shifts) is endearing. Recommended. I'd loan you mine, but I spilled coffee all over it.