As she went to bed that night, she said that she wished we had been able to finish the jigsaw. 'It's a pity,' she said, as she gave up. 'It's a pity.' It was the last evening of the last summer.
Books, too, have beginnings and endings, and they attempt to impose a pattern, to make a shape. We aim, by writing them, to make order from chaos. We fail. The admission of failure is the best that we can do. It is a form of progress.
The author offers an innovative mix of memoir, jigsaw-puzzle history, and the strange delights of puzzling, with sketches of her family members and her thoughts on the importance of childhood play, art, and writing.