Ariel Levy’s new memoir begins with a description of disorientation. “For the first time I can remember, I cannot locate my competent self,” she writes. “In the last few months, I have lost my son, my spouse, and my house. Every morning I wake up and for a few seconds I’m disoriented, confused as to why I feel grief seeping into my body, and then I remember what has become of my life.” Levy examines the choices that brought her to this point of collapse. Was she the agent of her own destruction? Did she ask too much of life?
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