It's a firewall of words, senses, ideas. The prose is perfect: original, variable, loose, easy, cutting, quick, and ephemeral. Her topics are mostly urbanity. But there's room for her father too. He says she can't write like Chekhov; I don't agree. She writes more like him than most, I feel bad for him, raising a child in the shadow of his sorrow, and I think she may resent him to the point of no return. In many ways GP is the quintessential modern writer, it all holds up today, though her fascination with race seemingly belies her other more inwardly salient treatises. She frowns at her jewishness, like any jew, like all people made apart, but life and race and her father and narrative and language and self-talk (with voices) drown out that awareness at the fear it could be turned against her, as if it was a delusion, (unlike the voices), and then, all the other issues of womanhood are at least literary material; so the earth is a tidal wave and New York City is a junkie, love is a time piece, and art a flywheel. I'm glad, really glad, I found her. She's great, and an otherworldly stylistic inspiration. Bad luck, though. Bad luck, or good.