One of those, ‘could write about their grocery list’ authors. This strikes a perfect note many times. Is it a flawless overall arrangement? No, I don’t think so. But what this does is so rare, it’s quite precious. At once verbalizing a foreign experience of womanhood and motherhood and sisterhood, while also being so forthcoming the granularity makes it a relatable story that taps the vein of a powerful and moving human experience. A condition of life being expressed through a wonderful but too often limited format of language, essentially.

In attempting to translate another woman’s work from the past and recreate a history, it becomes anthropological. A woman reconstituting womens’ history to get information for herself she knows she needs and simply can’t be (easily) found or accessed by most women. Then delving into her own past, showcasing her past and present hurts in a staggering manner. And then also weaving in poetics, finally the translated poem.

While it does open so strongly and viscerally there is some middle book syndrome, as it is impossible to maintain, nor would you, I think, want it to last so long?, the lows are more like apt and astute parts of really good memoirs—the highs, again, not something I’ve only very rarely been moved to.