“I know there was a time before I read Chris Kraus’s I Love Dick (in fact, that time was only five years ago), but it’s hard to imagine; some works of art do this to you. They tear down so many assumptions about what the form can handle (in this case, what the form of the novel can handle) that there is no way to re-create your mind before your encounter with them.” These are the words of Sheila Heti, and I can’t imagine how she reacted to this book in that way. What I thought this book would be, a searing and honest account of a failed illicit relationship form the woman’s point of view, of every aspect of that relationship, turned out to be little more than a silly person waffling on about a relationship that never existed. Never actually existed. Of no substance, save what she made of it: a non mentally ill woman – protagonist and author both – who lived the life of an artist of sorts: she moved at the edges of circles of the most pretentious and vacuous of people, the interlectuals of post-modernism, of art that isn’t art, of deconstructed art, of anything that isn’t mainstream, high-art, or old-fashioned. Frightfully tedious people by her own account. Almost pointless.