Love, beauty, the nature of attachment, ideas of femininity and masculinity, childrearing, depression - everything. Contrast with her earlier book Condundrum (1974), which is all reflection and deep thoughts on just about everything. Almost like a description of the decor of her life. Even the subject of her wife’s dementia - surely a spur to thoughts on the nature of being - is mentioned with something close to dispassion. Much of it is about that day’s weather, favorite trees, how she talks to people in the neighborhood, being Welsh, current politics, and so on. I would say it’s almost startlingly in the moment for someone who anticipates dying at almost any time. It is almost entirely trivial, and hardly even reflective. She wrote it when she was 91 and 92, and it was published in 2020. I got to thinking about this reading Jan Morris’ recent book of published daily reflections, Thinking Again. Not necessarily peak quality or peak beauty - peak likeliness to concern themselves with big questions about things like sex, death, meaning, their place in the universe, and so on. I have a theory about writers, which is they reach peak expansiveness around age 50 or so.