It’s difficult to describe this collection of essays; I’m not convinced I should even refer to them as essays, exactly, as they often feel more like lyric than prose. The sections wander delightfully, the sentences snapping and turning in unpredictable ways. The title draws from Virginia Woolf and, on some level, the book is a work about writing. But where so many books on that topic are vapid, this one is strange and inviting. I expect to return to it, and soon.