I’m a big fan of Gilbert’s earlier work (specifically 2003’s The Last American Man) and I was deeply disappointed by this book. In fact, I sent it sailing across the room twice within the first hour. Gilbert’s a fine writer, let there be no doubt. Her structure is great. She writes scrumptious sentences. She’s an eminently likable narrator. But my complaint is more psychological rather than literary. As we learn over the course of the book, Ms. Gilbert is an enormously privileged woman, lives the glamorous writing life in NYC, owns two homes and yet is so sad and depressed about life. Get over yourself, lady! This book is the literary equivalent of like How Stella Got Her Grove Back. Only with yoga and white people.
Gilbert claims to be quite the globe-trotter but seems to have never learned the basic tenet of travel: learnin
