Kirkus Review
Fifteen tiny stories, some only a few paragraphs long--in a slight collection (less than 100 pages of text) that features, principally, the adolescent-angst sensibility of strung-out young women living in southern California. Hempel's narrators murmur about lost childhoods, rotten men, adored pets; they deliver routine one-liners--about TV commercials, award-shows, and other minor cultural manifestations. Sometimes, as in the similarly thin work of Lorrie Moore (Self-Help, p. 58), there are rueful little instructions on how to deal with all the anxiety: "Here is what you do. You ease yourself into a tub of water, you ease yourself down. You lie back and wait for the ripples to smooth away. Then you take a deep breath, and slide your head under, and listen for the playfulness of your heart." (Here, and elsewhere, Hempel--occasionally in bald, hollow imitation of Joan Didion--strains for a severe sort of lyricism.) But, though the recurring theme of grief (mourning a broken marriage, a death, the past, etc.) provides a hint of resonance, too often the approach is cheaply manipulative, an artsy equivalent to tabloid sensationalism--as in "When It's Human Instead of When It's Dog" (about the sad carpet stain in a fancy home that marks the spot where the lady-of-the-house died). And only two pieces really attempt to go beyond the studied juxtaposition of whimsical/portentous anecdotes, ironic observations, and refrigerated self-pity: "Beg, Sl Tog, Inc, Cont, Rep" presents the familiar setup of two friends, one about to give birth and one recovering from an abortion, with knitting as an over-obvious symbol of both pulling-oneself-together and rejected/frustrated maternal yearnings; "In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried" is somewhat more successful--layering the plainly affecting story of a friend's death with dark jokes and self-deprecation. . . though here too the central sentiment is unnecessarily, moistly emphasized. ("Baby, come hug, Baby, come hug, fluent now in the language of grief.") Borrowed mannerisms for the most part, with only a few glimmers of emotional substance or fresh voicing. (Kirkus Reviews, March 15, 1985)
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