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308 pages, Kindle Edition
First published February 2, 2021
Though the emotional circumstances of our lives are as temporary as fast fashion trends and so the conditions of our drinking together are always changing, that shot was an echo of every single shot we've ever taken together, an amassing of our long friendship, an expression of our love for each other. Love, like alcohol, is something the body consumes.
... my "death instinct," which didn't necessarily mean I was suicidal, just meant that I had the drive in me to self-destruct, but gradually, muting my suffering with "ritualized comfort-seeking behaviors," like drinking or making enemies or paying to soak a the Korean spa with the only money I had left to buy groceries.
The coke had me feeling good, like the little blue Adderalls my best friend used to give me in college, like hiking the hard path of Runyon Canyon and all your effort rewarded by the stunning vista, like the moment in a horror movie when the haunted teenager finally destroys the ghost that killed all of her friends. I chase all the little euphorias that life offers, chemical or physical or recreational. No single joy is more valid, more objectively good, than any other. They are all available for us, and meant for us to feast on.
I added this book to my get-at-library list thanks to its inclusion on the NYT's list. Unavailable at Portsmouth Public Library, I used an Interlibrary Loan pick at the University Near Here to get a copy from Brandeis University.
The narrating protagonist is Eve. She's a cocaine-snorting lesbian witch, who sees ghosts, and communicates with a dead friend via text. And, although it was in that "best mysteries" list, there's very little mysterious content here. The friend was a suicide, not a murder faked to look that way. Another friend goes missing, and that worries Eve, but is eventually tracked down unharmed, he just wanted to get away. There's no criminal activity, save for whatever is involved in Los Angeles illicit drug consumption these days.
Honest summary: Eve has a difficult time with relationships, and this book recounts her efforts to sort things out over the space of a few days.
Eve talks about everything. On page 118, a waiter brings her enchiladas, warning her: "Hot plate". And:
When he turned away, I touched the plate with the sides of both of my hands. Whenever a waiter tells me a plate is hot, I have to touch it. I want whatever heat anything is giving off.
Hey, me too! Except I just use one finger, not the sides of my hands. And not for some weird attraction to heat, I just consider what the waiter said to be a dare. Similarly, I watch the blood donation needle go into my arm even after—nay, especially after—the Red Cross phlebotomist tells me that I might not want to.
If you found that last paragraph uninteresting and irrelevant, I don't blame you. And that's the way I felt all through this book, because Eve tells you every single thing that goes through her brain, without regard for relevance or interest.
Eve, and all the other major characters in the book are perpetually on emotional hair-triggers, ready to take offense at each others' actions or remarks. Nobody has a detectable sense of humor. (Although the word "sardonically" appears twice on the back cover description, sorry, that's not the same thing.) Everyone's online, all the time. Except for that missing guy. All in all, the book is not a great advertisement for the Southern California lesbian lifestyle. Eve is not "gay" at all.
But there are a couple explicit lesbian sex scenes. Is that what it takes to get a book banned at Portsmouth Public Library?
So: it's clear that many people like this sort of thing; ratings at Amazon and Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ are pretty high. And that NYT reviewer liked it too. But it wasn't my cup of tea.