As is always the case with Ms. Picoult’s work, this was not a comfortable read, but her shining prose and mastery of the craft–never better displayed than here–rendered me unable to not keep reading. I am particularly in awe of the various types of writing she did here, from playwriting to historical novel to contemporary story. (And if it says anything, I teared up at the end, something I didn’t expect before then.) She continues to stretch her wings and soar when she does, and I don’t think there’s a finer compliment for a storyteller that she keeps reaching.
PS She’s right: I will never forget Emilia.
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