Bernadine Evaristo’s Girl, Woman, Other branches and coils through a dozen lives (all the metaphors that come to mind are natural: trees, rivers, lava), unfurling beautifully and peaceably in some places, wildly in others. I’ve been thinking off and on about this book for years, have taught it, sometimes start an MPP entry about Evaristo, decide this isn’t a format in which I can capture anything about what she does, realize that “capturing” is antithetical to this book’s project (though analysis and second guessing are part of what Evaristo does so brilliantly), give up. And start again. So today, without capturing anything at all, I’m going to go ahead and celebrate the way she breaks forms.