Honestly this was a fun read and I think every famous author should do a holiday short story collection, complete with a foreword with their favorite childhood memories.

We may not be like Natalie or know anyone like her, but she has aspects that we can surely relate to, or recognize in other people. She sees that she is in a system rigged against her, and variably either tries to refuse to play or game the system so she can feel like she’s winning. She constantly compares herself to others, ranking people in her head and imagining an audience she performs femininity for. She doesn’t take time to properly examine the inconsistencies of her beliefs, or to learn the arguments of others’. She imagines what other people think and say about her, sometimes with good reason, and judges them according to her perception more than their true actions. She suffers under a system she passively perpetuates, and tries to use a works-based religion to comfort herself that there is meaning to her actions, a point to her suffering, and someone to thank and blame. She is by turns insecure, smug, self-doubting, self-jubilant, cunning, clueless, obsessed with others, obsessed with herself. I pity her, I am revolted by her, I relate to her, I love her. She’s an exaggeration for satire’s sake, but she feels real!

The story didn't quite stick the landing for me. The part that's the hardest to believe is also the part that is skipped over the most, making it rather far-fetched and drawing attention away from the point.

It’s not often that the annoyingly quirky and “witty” narrator/characters are men! Refreshing.

Ooh, look at me, I’m reading Hamnet, ooh I’m so miserable…

This book is so hard to get through because you just know what’s gonna happen, so you have to start reading without thinking too much. (I also understand some readers may find this writing boring) Thankfully the writing gently leads and walks every step with you. The feelings are not concentrated in any maudlin moment, but truly developed in their complications, ups and downs, and just felt without being explained.

Really gets me thinking about how a man who is (societally) allowed to read and write is also (societally) allowed to grieve in a completely different way than a woman who is (societally) kept away from such things. How nice for you, male mourner, that you get can leave the house of death and its daily reminders of tragedy, and lose yourself in work or process your grief artistically in clever ways. How nice that you don’t need to stay anywhere to tend a house or children or face your neighbors. Whatever.

Anyway 4.5 ⭐️ because I think the narrative pacing was a tiny bit off at the end, and I want to hear more of what the relatively illiterate Agnes thinks of art and literature.