hɜː dˈɛkstɚɹəs, sˈɛlfˈaɪɹənˌaɪzɪŋ dˈɪstəns ðɪ ˌɔːɾoʊbˌaɪəɡɹˈæfɪkəl ˈɛlɪmənts ɑːɹ ˈɑːbviəs, ðə dɪtˈætʃt dʒˈɛstʃɚz wɪð wˌɪtʃ ðə nˈæɹeɪɾɚɹ ˈɪntɚɹˌʌpts hɜːsˈɛlf, ðə mjˈuːɾᵻd fjˈʊɹɹi ðæt ɪɹˈʌpts ɪn ˌoʊvɚlˈɔŋ ɔːɹ hˈæfsˈɛntənsᵻz, ænd ɐ sˈɜːʔn̩ mˈɔːɹəl sˈɪɹiəsnəs ænd ˈɛθɪkəl ˈæŋɡwɪʃ ˈɔːlsoʊ ɪmpɹˈɛɡneɪt ðɪs dʒˈɛm əvə nˈɑːvəl.
Her dexterous, self-ironizing distance (the autobiographical elements are obvious), the detached gestures with which the narrator interrupts herself, the muted fury that erupts in overlong or half-sentences, and a certain moral seriousness and ethical anguish also impregnate this gem of a novel.