{ alone in suicide, which is deeper than death. }

[delga]

I just finished Eugenides' The Virgin Suicides. Half-way through you feet sort of angry, quietly furious, and towards the end, naturally, you feel sad. But at the last page, your narrators are hurt and a little bitter, and you sort of wonder why you spent so long reading a book whose conclusion you knew from the very first line, or even from the cover.

This book is a confessional, not a memoir, and the very last page, the very last paragraph reveals what you half-guess all the way through: that your narrators are stuck here, in this year and a half that will never disappear, and that the only way they can escape is to re-live the entire ordeal. The novel, like the narrative, turns circles on itself.