layered with surreal story telling but remains an extraordinarily realistic read, in the sense that even the most solid realities of life-and death-tend to blur and shimmer at their raw edges. The talkative bird that nests in a woman's womb is as real as the "previous tenant." The love of a mother for her uncontrollable son is as real as the wildness that is in her too. The women of The Ill-Fitting Skin are real women-who work and grieve and create and destroy, who love and do not love, whether at the roll of the dice or because "the pages are paths, and you will have to choose among them."