It's not that this book was bad, it just wasn't my kind of book. I knew that when I started it, but for some reason that didn't stop me. Maybe because it was short? Maybe because I wanted to make sure what I thought my tastes are, actually are my tastes? Actually, the one in the middle about the women in the hospice reading Virginia Woolf was good. What is it about the terminally ill that just won't let them stay on-topic? I think this is the only book I've read in the first-person plural. Because, no, I haven't read that other book that's getting all the hoo-ha lately. And don't plan to.