I wonder: was I really sleeping on the floor when I read Kate Zambreno’s Green Girl? Why would I have been? But that’s how I remember it: bunched awkwardly in a corner of the spare bedroom, 2 a.m. and the overhead light on, still reading in the wreck of my marriage (but surely I slept in the bed until the day I left?). And I remember because I read Last Words the same way. I want to criticize it, discard it, but I can’t, and it ties my stomach in knots, turns me inside out, as I read.
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