I wanted desperately to like this book. After all, I’d ordered it up through ILL and it came wafting across the country to me, special delivery. The past few months I’ve immersed myself in Katherine Mansfield, so felt that I was particularly open to all things KM-related. That is sadly not the case.
The book came out of the author winning a sabbatical of sorts to go live in Wellington, New Zealand, and simply read and think and write about KM. Parts are good, wherein she muses about idea that writers are essentially homeless, rootless, and that they create homes out of words. KM was torn between her deep desire to get the hell out of New Zealand and her lyrical lush descriptions of that place in her stories. Perhaps we must fully turn our back on that which we want to write about.