Don’t think of this as a book. Its construction is deliberately fragmented, its tone switching abruptly, its very shape shifting, from dark, brooding masses to sharp, slender shards. And this, you should expect: for the heart of a woman is simultaneously durable beyond measure yet fragile beyond belief. Several incidents are told and retold; each passage is different, as each memory is slightly different, yet all have the ring of truth. The lesson here, as I see it, is that the memory of such torments will never go away, but they need not torture us for the rest of our lives. And if your reaction to this is “Thank God I didn’t have to go through that,” well, let us rejoice in your good fortune, and long may it continue.