PositiveThe Los Angeles Review of BooksEpic highs and lows alike are muted in this contemplative memoir by Anderson’s resolute acceptance of things as they are, rather than the way she might like them to be. Would-be villains are reduced to their actions rather than the motivations one might project onto them; irredeemable acts reflect more on the cruelty of the world than the inhumanity of their perpetrators. This same lens is turned on those Anderson loves: even when they commit violence against her or others, accountability never quite slips into condemnation ... That’s a shame, because Love, Pamela is at its most engaging when we see Anderson at her most human ... In Love, Pamela, whatever conclusions she’s drawn are kept in a black box, as if the way she feels is simply beside the point. These things happened — isn’t that enough? This reticence can be frustrating, especially as Anderson enters adulthood ... The brightest spots in her prose appear when the poetic images leap onto the page from the real world ... Love, Pamela feels like... sitting in a white Adirondack chair facing the ocean while someone tells you the story of their extraordinary life as if it happened to a stranger. As if it could have happened to anyone.
