I started reading this last night and it's so beautiful and so devastating—the first handful of pages describe the day Molly, the author's wife, killed herself, from the experience of the author. It's so loving and sad and written at least so far without anger or guilt. I can't imagine writing or publishing it, and it's also healing in a way to read someone just loving someone else deeply, and understanding that their partner's pain can still exist independent of them and that love. I feel weird about reading this book so far, feel unsettled about where it is going to go. For now, I am glad I found it.
(NYT review here: www.nytimes.com/2024/03/25/books/review/blake-butler-molly.html)