The Hero of This Book

You might read this little book, as I did, loving almost every page, and not be sure at the end what actually happened. What happens, more or less, is the narrator—this is not a memoir, she says, but it 99% is—visits London, a city she had recently visited with her late mother, and walks around by herself and remembers—is reminded of—her marvelous, stubborn, private, outgoing, tiny, generous, misshapen, funny, opinionated, brilliant mother. It's a book of adjectives more than story, and as if in tribute to its hero, just about every sentence in the book is odd and beautiful. And if, when you get to the end of the book, you don't quite know what happened, do what I'm doing (with even more pleasure than the first time): read it again.