My first encounter with Katie Roiphe was her 2007 release of Uncommon Arrangements: Seven Portraits of Married Life in London Literary Circles 1910-1939. I thought this was an exemplary study of the personal relationships of several literary legends, loosely tied together by the commentary of Virginia Woolf (who seemed to know them all). I've recommended this book and still do, despite the fact that it can be tough to obtain on occasion. I was then, and remain today, ignorant of her labors in the feminist arena and her various writings for newspapers and magazines. These appear to have fostered some antagonistic feeling. Roiphe-haters they're called, and there are enough of them around to remark upon.

Roiphe calls attention to this faction of her readership at the start of this collection of essays. She is mystified but accepts the probability that her writing makes a lot of people uncomfortable. I would refine that idea and confine it to the writing she does on the current culture. It would be difficult, for example, to read the essays she's written here on parenting were I a parent in her orbit. Some of her observations are unkind, and not reinforced with solidly objectifying provisos. (In other words, it would be easy to take this stuff personally.) I don't know that this is a reason to hate her, though. Or to turn away from such a distinctly unusual voice and perspective on life.

I think there's a place for annoyance in reading. I think it's important to feel that, and to react to it; to express an objection and, in the process, exercise those reasoning muscles that keep the mind in play. Righteous indignation is motivating - and you just don't often get that from people who find you bewitching and spectacular. It's instinctual to surround ourselves with those who accept us and share our outlook, yet when a challenge is sought the odds are great that it will come from those who don't. There's benefit to be had from authors with whom we take issue, and I've benefited a bit right here.

For instance, I'm not sure why Anais Nin wasn't referenced in the essay on the upsurge of incest in literature. I considered it ironic that Didion was charged with reticence to reveal her truth while Roiphe was, at the same time, resistant to revealing her true opinion of Didion. And I don't agree with her contention that, for all of Sontag's dedicated strength and forcefulness of character, she had to remind herself to take a bath because she found herself "so flustered by soap and water." (Better, I think, to examine the naked vulnerability necessary for a bath to succeed.)

And yet, selections like Unquiet Americans and Beautiful Boy, Warm Night are not to be missed. The essay on Jane Austen was lovely and tugged me toward my copy of Kafka's Letters to Felice for further examination of the fear of what marriage might cost Art. Many other subjects were piquantly engaged. Roiphe is a highly-skilled writer - who will probably tick you off. Frequently. Is she worth it?

That's a question you'll have to answer for yourself.