Here we are, millions, legion, expecting books to make us think and wonder about what’s going on. Actually resenting authors who tell, don’t show us. Here we are appreciating a book written the way a person might think, in random bits of memories that will help us the readers put the pieces together to reveal the whole puzzle. And sometimes we are even able to appreciate a book that doesn’t bring closure, much like life. More fools us.

I am a bit confused when people expect to “enjoy” a book written from the POV of a traumatized woman forced into sexual and reproductive slavery by a society made of fanatic religious slavers.