This was written, the author says, to chronicle the grief caused by the death of her first husband about ten years ago. It isn't a lot like her fictional writings when it comes to story,, virtually free from sensational behavior. The only sense of scandal is purely conjecture, But in a more fundamental way, the author does what she has done over a productive lifetime of storytelling: she depicts herself and her husband as characters in a story, and draws meaning from their feelings and their actions. I found it tremendously moving to see how preoccupied with thoughts of suicide she reports herself as becoming after she lost her companion of nearly her entire adult life, found herself cut off from the world, playing the role of "the widow." She does not claim this development as universal as she notes other people in similar circumstances reacting in quite different fashions. The power of her writing comes with the specificity of each little item, chance encounters, the precise color of the fear she felt when friends would try contancting her, the exact nature of the pills she relied on to fight insomnia and the way she came to think of them as dangerous lures. The two of them lived alone together in their house near Princeton which became a strange place at the same time it was her only haven. What touches of anger she held toward her husband were mainly a reaction to the keen pain she was feeling when he left her alone and overwhelmed.

Her husband Raymond's illness occupied the first third of the book only, it was basically without warning and he did not linger on with a chronic condition the way the author's second husband (who died only last month) ended up doing. It feels like that's just the way things happened to play out, and if the particulars had been different, the weight of the longing afterwards would be nearly the same. It feels like that is just wired into people, especially the sort of people with exquisitely fine-tuned senses she possesses as an artist.

I saw Joyce Carol Oates speak at an event about thirty years ago and while I don't remember the substance of her remarks, I still carry an impression of the force of character this slight woman possessed and it has stuck with me. This memoir would certainly be of interest to anyone who enjoys the author's other work. I also think it has something to say about the fundamental questions in human life: what is the meaning of the connection we have with our loved ones? how well do we know one another, even when we think we are close? what is the best and most humane way to be with a person in mourning? and what makes it worth one's while to continue living thorugh unhappiness?