I'm not sure how to describe this book. Though it's classified as a novel, I don't really see it as such. It has no plot that I can see. It is largely autobiographical, but is not linear. You don't even have to read the chapters in order, or even the entire book at once. You can simply choose one chapter, such as Chapter 3, with its wonderful portrayal of Billie Holliday, or the sly description of Hardwick's real-life husband, Robert Lowell, who is never named, but you just know that's him in Chapter 1.

I really need to find more books by this author. I don't know why I had not heard of her before reading this book. The language is wonderful. For example, in Chapter 3, she describes Billie Holliday:

"The creamy lips, the oily eyelids, the violent perfume - and in her voice the tropical l's and r's. Her presence, her singing created a large, swelling anxiety. Long red fingernails and the sound of electrified guitars. Here was a woman who had never been a Christian."

Just read it. Seriously. I can't recommend it enough.