She takes words and cunningly finds the exact semantic sequence to shift prose into poetry.
I imagine her, searching for the exact phrase, like artists seek colors and musicians find the right notes.
I can also testify to her prowess because I hate the protagonist of the novel: The Pull of the Moon.
OMG as the kids would say. If this is chicklit- then get me Edgar Allen Poe.
I have never read so called women's books. From feminists' screeds to the predicable romance novels, there seems to be nothing of interest for me.
In fact, and I have dozens of friends who would swoon at the thought, but spare me the Brontes and Jane Austen. Only a spinster could have created Mr. Darcy.
But I digress. Back to Nan. This character is fifty and has lead a charmed life. No real tragedies. She marries fairly young, her husband prospers and their daughter matures into solid adulthood.
Still, Nan flees, I guess with her spouse's AMEX card, to, dare I say it, "find herself."
On her road trip, Nan obsesses over every bump and slight in her life and marriage. We get to read about the times her husband ignored her.
Take that women in Darfur.
As she lallygags from Boston to points west, she spends money without shame or care and meets the most boring people on the planet.
As she reviews her life of privilege, one fact becomes clear. She one of the most selfish characters in print- including Blanche DuBois. Who at least was fascinating.
We learn about Nan's imagined grudges through letters she writes to her temporarily abandoned husband and a journal she keeps.
Finally, after emotional blackmail, manipulation and a demand for a custom built new home that she will control, Nan heads back.
But Berg has crafted this monster so vividly, that I continue to despise her. I am afraid that she is meant to represent every women reaching middle age.
Please God, no.
Indict Bush.
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