The most glamorous book you will read this year. If you read it next year, that will still be true. If you were one of the few who read it in 2004, read it again ... Rose also exudes a glamour of the kind some fairies in folklore possess ... Enchanting ... Rose describes her affairs and assignations with wistful wit, bending ordinary language into bands around her bare ring finger ... A perfect book.
The most radical anti-memoir I’ve read: no answers, no questions even, but instead a sort of anti-tribute to the art of finding one’s people, or thriving in the failure to do so.
Some readers will find Rose's preoccupation with male approval knotty ... But at times Rose swerves from doormat-like compliance to burgeoning feminism.
Tantalizingly elliptical ... Her prose is languid yet involving, and occasionally precious. Rose writes of her life rather than examining it, and her haunting memoir is exquisitely detailed, eerily fraught and ineffably sad.
What follows is a compendious, enervating catalogue of snappy responses and witticisms between her and the men, in and out of office and restaurants and bed. Not enough evidence of life here to warrant CPR.
