"The act of reviewing—or even just having critical thoughts about—juvenilia produced by someone who cannot defend herself seems both loathsome and pointless."

Writes Alice Gregory, confronted with "The Opposite of Loneliness: Essays and Stories," by Marina Keegan, who died in a car crash at the age of 22.

You can read the title essay on-line here: "The Opposite of Loneliness." Excerpt:

Yale is full of tiny circles we pull around ourselves. A cappella groups, sports teams, houses, societies, clubs. These tiny groups that make us feel loved and safe and part of something even on our loneliest nights when we stumble home to our computers — partner-less, tired, awake. We won’t have those next year. We won’t live on the same block as all our friends. We won’t have a bunch of group-texts.

This scares me. More than finding the right job or city or spouse – I’m scared of losing this web we’re in. This elusive, indefinable, opposite of loneliness. This feeling I feel right now.

The Alice Gregory quote selected for the post title creates an inference that she loves the book, since the review exists. You'd have to be an out-and-proud churl to write a negative review and Gregory is flaunting her sensitivity. She tells us how she left the book sitting on her "kitchen table for days, beside the salt cellar, a candle, and a bowl of tangerines."

This kitchen-table still life is annoying me. It's so milk-and-toast-and-honey-and-a-bowl-of-oranges-too. The review pours out like butterscotch and sticks to all your senses.