I wish I could say I liked this book. I enjoyed Fun Home, and think that Bechdel is a remarkable writer.

But she starts the book by saying that she's going to write about her mother, and then starts talking about how she can't do that. She tries to pick out events out of her childhood and her mother's life, and writes about talking about it in psychoanalysis. This is, essentially, the entire book. Bechdel's conceptual framework clearly thinks that analysis is important, but for her it seems to be an end in itself.

Bechdel doesn't ask for her mother's permission to expose her private life and communication, but it turns out her mother is savvy enough to understand the book isn't about her at all. There's no great insight to be gained from her therapy, her analysis of therapy, her writing about her analysis of therapy, her writing about the analysis of the analyst responsible for the theory of psychoanalysis of children (I'm not even joking).

There's only her mother's quiet, ironic voice saying "Isn't this a waste of time, dear?" And she's right.