** I Remember Nothing by Nora Ephron

I Remember Nothing is packaged uncannily like I Feel Bad About My Neck, which I loved for its wry reflections on the high cost of  body maintenance, and often feels like a cheap remake. The essays are very uneven — and some so short, only a couple of lines, as to believe that someone just needed to meet a quota of pages. That said, I very much liked the descriptions of the author’s start in the (then, at least) terribly sexist world of journalism, as well as her memories of her formidable mother, who even beyond her unfortunate alcoholic death influences her sartorial choices. And her pride about having a restaurant dish named after her, only to be crushed when it’s removed from the menu, is very amusingly told.

 

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