This was mostly delightful. I ended up skipping quite a bit, including the entire chapter on Chekov, mostly because of a vague and probably dumb desire to avoid spoilers. It's really interesting how she builds the instruction/colloquy from words to sentences to paragraphs to dialogue to description/gesture. My brain tingled moving from sentences to paragraphs, because I was for sure she was going to write about Nabakov and Kerouac and I would do a teeny little in-bed-in-my-nightgown-eating-ice-and-chocolate boogie to read someone else love them as much as me. Nabakov, yes. Light of my life, fire of my loins. There is just NOTHING out there like him. Kerouac, no. I held out hope to the very end of the book. But I guess if you're as into Chekov and Kafka as Prose is, Kerouac is probably not your jam. I'll write my own version and dedicate it to her, called Reading Like a Freaky Beatnik: A Guide for People Who Read More American Literature than Russian. Then we will have coffee and be besties and she will help me write a novel. BRB gonna go get on this plan.