In Ephron’s delicious new collection of riffs and reminiscences, she’s graduated from feeling bad about her neck to feeling bad, or rueful anyway, about encroaching fogy-hood ("I have no idea who anyone in People magazine is"), her inability to recognize old friends, and her failing memory, which is, luckily, upgradable ("The Senior Moment has become the Google Moment"). In fact, Ephron’s memory serves her well. Her discourses on divorces, alcoholic parents and her early days as a journalist in 1960s New York are gleaming with youthful innocence. "Looking back," she writes, "it seems to me that I was clueless until I was about 50 years old."
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