The novel keeps evolving — from grief memoir to murder mystery to environmental battle, sliding along a slick surface of greasy New Age truisms ... My objection to the sentimentality sprinkled over The Life Impossible is not that it’s emotional excess; it’s that it’s emotional aspartame. Yes, of course, fantasy can be a comfort in times of despair, but prescribing a story as silly as this one in response to a heartfelt confession of grief and depression feels like recommending brighter wallpaper as a treatment for termite damage.
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