In her trademark godly yet snarky way, she extracts every life lesson from her latest new experience with the deft zeal of a chef reducing flour and fat to roux ... At times, Somehow made me huffy about — by which I mean envious of — Lamott’s gift for writing powerfully, deeply, often radically, while appealing to, well, everyone ... No matter one’s external descriptors, Lamott speaks to the human in all of us, challenging us to bear her beam of love, and our own.
Slim as it is, Somehow is flabby and sometimes cringey ... To be clear, I love Anne Lamott. But when she writes of how a friend with a fatal disease passed gas on a walk, and a visiting rabbi blowing a shofar on a houseboat deck reminded her of the flatulence, one does flash unkindly on the remark David Foster Wallace attributed to a lady of his acquaintance, re: another national treasure, John Updike: "Has the son of a bitch ever had one unpublished thought?
Lamott confronts the most complex of emotions in all its forms and contradictions ... Lamott’s homespun homilies, patchworks of common wisdom and slogans like 'one day at a time' might sound basic, but her boatload of self-awareness is genuine, and her dedication to craft elevates the writing from self-help journal to a companionable reader.
Lamott’s many readers are loyal, and this will be an easy sell. But pass it on, too, to people who may not even realize that they are searching for ways to connect with and love others.
Lamott brings her signature wit and warmth to these effervescent meditations on matters of the heart ... A topic that might feel trite in the hands of a lesser writer takes on fresh meaning in Lamott’s, thanks to her ability to distill complex truths with a deceptive lightness. This rings true.
