amar

It's just that — a letter. It rather felt like a bullet list — yes, everything proper and we should all know; but it was just a hastily written letter which became a book due to the fame of the author. That's the tragedy, not the content on the book, which you really don't need if you are already initiated into feminism, and if you're not then there are much better ways to get to that.

It's felt like that newspaper article which is quickly assembled to fill the empty space in tomorrow's edition listing all the right things.

It scared me a little. Reading this book echoed some of the sentiments I've felt, over these years - albeit rationally less intensely (or honestly) than the protagonist (or I want to believe that), in a very precise and seemingly casual way. Something I have mostly not been prepared to do. “...that my nature was such that my physical needs often got in the way of my feelings...”, saying something like this is so stark, and simple, and accessible. I don't like monologues, but I really like this short of a long monologue. And the absurdity of the existing questioned in a way of explaining.

I found this book so utterly disinteresting that my reading paused to almost nothing for a few weeks. Finally I decided to out this book out of its misery and donated it to my RWA's library, having scan-read the remaining 60-70%; that was rather to just finish the ritual of marking the book complete. That might also help me not picking it ever again. I am slowly making peace with the realisation that I have always hated monologues. And that an uninteresting book might not be worth your time.