These women are infuriating. They speak of companionship and community, but they are blind to the tragedies of themselves.
Skip is silent and does not speak. She might have a glorious inner life, but who would know? Jack mourns someone who will never come and is beginning to delight in the loneliness. BCC: spends all day on a typewriter, a ridiculously ancient device, writing many letters and receiving only a few in return. Moso is strange, secretive but aware of herself and is a lesson in quiet regard. Nadira holds strength and compassion in equal measure, a contradiction to the truly strong. Nayara betrays knowledge that does not come from a peaceful life, but finds humor in its absurdity. Kirsten speaks of happiness and the happiness of others when she is sad, not considering that caring about the chaos that exists within other humans is the root of unhappiness, clear to those who have never been happy.
And what of me? What is my tragedy?