The Feminine Mystique is a painful read, both disorganized and poorly written. I got up to “...the women who “adjust” as housewives... are in as much danger as the millions who walked to their own death in the concentration camps...”, at which point I cut my losses (hours of my life lost) and closed the book.

Zami puts into print stories and feelings the reader would rather not read but persists anyway to try to catch a satisfying definition of love.

It was difficult to bring myself to give a shit and so I didn’t.