The instinctual nature of Dieterich’s exploration is the charm of her voice and narrative style, reflecting the motions of the ballets she loves, reflecting her way of dancing with vocabulary, turning words around and around until she spins out from them. This is an artist’s memoir as much as it is a writer’s—she plays with image, language, and ornamentation in ways that are as much for sheer aesthetic pleasure as they are to further the narrative, and yet she keeps the narrative feeling lean and necessary. The story is a dancer’s body: tightly coiled muscle around bones; the air surrounding the body’s motions is the white space vibrating between scenes.

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