I loved this one. A novel that reads like a memoir (I thought it was), about a woman taking care of the dog of a friend who has killed himself. On the one hand there is the love story between her and the dog, the getting to know and trust each other, their growing dependent on one another. On the other, the one between her and the dead friend: not quite a romance, but affection, admiration, respect, sexual tension.

Grief, love relationship and writing are the three main themes. As she overhears at the memorial, her friend is now another dead straight white man, a womanizing and non PC one at that. It is implied that one of the reasons he killed himself is that he felt the chasm between him and today's intellectual climate had grown too wide: in a world where people want to read 'politically constructive' stories from 'the oppressed', what place is there for the historical writer - relatively privileged, often morally reprehensible, not too concerned about offending people? It could be a very annoying line of thinking, but because the narrator herself is not fully on board (a progressive woman, concerned about who should she write about and for, aware of her privilege...) it is easier to listen to. I'm not making much sense, and maybe it doesn't matter, I think the main reason I liked the book is her soothing tone, erudite but full of humor and, above all, love and sadness for the loss of two loves.