This was my first Nora Ephron book, and likely my last. [If this isn’t a good representation let me know and I’ll certainly revisit!] This is a collection written in the early 2000s, far enough past 9/11 that it’s enjoyably light and perhaps too far from the present that some of the lines are a little…dated? I don’t know. She lived in a different world than I ever have or will – fancy NYC apartments with five-digit monthly rents, East versus West Manhattan sunlight woes, door man woes, interning at the Whitehouse.
While I don’t think Ephron is someone I ever would have hung out with, obviously she earns respect as a writer. Her tone is deceptively conversational. It’s easy to follow but then later you think, “Oh, yeah…” The one essay which really resonated was On Rapture, a whole piece about loving books throughout her life. One evergreen sentence regardless of one’s lifestyle: “Each minute I spend away from the book pretending to be interested in everyday life is a misery.” I get that!
What else can I say about the book? Perhaps it leads to interesting larger questions – What are we looking for from books like these? Can you like someone’s personal writing and not click with them as a person? Should you? Is it bad to only read things you like? In times of crisis is it better to try and read something diversionary and fun, or should one just fully embrace the suck, as they say? Thoughts? Hatemail?