Some books are so unremittingly personal that I am driven to distraction. This collection of achingly intimate essays—not quite chronological, in broken narrative, shifting between past and present tense—are addressed to “you” (me?!), which unnerved my inner WASP. TMI, dear author! Put a tourniquet on this open vein, you’re going to die and stain the carpet. Things are intense from page FOUR: The ugly truth is that I lost my son Isadore in court. The Hague Convention. The ugly of that truth is that I […]