I never knew my mother, and thank fucking God for that. Hedgehog mothers have the tendency to eat their young on account of our poor eyesight and solitary natures. We are not the maternal type. I guess that’s why I relate to the titular mother in Semple’s novel. Like me, Bernadette is an introvert. Introverts are not anti-social, nor do we wander the desert and wear hair shirts. We simply have a limited amount of energy. We have to be careful about how we spend it and always take time to recharge from expending it on you assholes. The novel knows that non-introverts see us as hermetic bastards, which is why I loved Bernadette’s letters to her personal assistant, Manjula. Any time an introvert has to explain what they want, they come off sounding bat-shit crazy, but hey, take us or leave us. We could not give a flying fuck.

This book made me think deep thoughts about the universe. Can an intrinsically solitary creature ever become a good mother? Can you really ever know someone? Shit. This is probably the only time I’ll ever agree with that blowhard Franzen. I did indeed “tear through this book with heedless pleasure.”

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