I used to think of Jamaica Kincaid as such an angry person; now I don't anymore. Has she changed or have I? This memoir of her brother is very, very strange in its form and its tone. I'm really glad read it; I was rarely less than interested while reading, and at times I was deeply moved. It's lyrical and philosophical. Should I assume that the repetition is all intentional and done for poetic purposes or did she just write it in one big emotional rush? I wish it were a little bit more conventionally organized. This writer and this book are not for everybody. My mom thinks Kincaid should be under observation. But... well, anyway, we're talking about stuff that happened 12 years ago at this point.

Should I give the book an 8 out of 10? Nah. I'm a tough grader. But definitely it's worth a look for anyone interested in memoir, AIDs memoirs, AIDS, the Caribbean, mothering skills, or Jamaica Kincaid.

CONTROLLED RELEASE NOTES:

This is not exactly a release into the wild, but it's not a handoff to a known individual, either. It's to whoever stays after me in condo #1 at the Norman Mailer Writers Colony. Or else possibly a staff member who has access to the unit. The person in the unit before me kindly left some red lentils, which I have eaten, and a *Shambhala Sun* magainze, which I have read. This is my contribution to the next inhabitant or caretaker.