The Year of Pleasures

The Year of Pleasures

by Elizabeth Berg


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In this rich and deeply satisfying novel by the beloved author of The Art of Mending, and Open House, a resilient woman embarks upon an unforgettable journey of adventure, self-discovery, and renewal. 

Betta Nolan moves to a small town after the death of her husband to try to begin anew. Pursuing a dream of a different kind of life, she is determined to find pleasure in her simply daily routines. Among those who help her in both expected and unexpected ways are the ten-year-old boy next door, three wild women friends from her college days, a twenty-year-old who is struggling to find his place in the world, and a handsome man who is ready for love.

Elizabeth Berg's The Year of Pleasuresis about acknowledging the solace found in ordinary things: a warm bath, good food, the beauty of nature, music, friends, and art. "Berg writes with humor and a big heart about resilience, loneliness, love, and hope. And the transcendence that redeems," said Andre Dubus about Durable Goods. And the same could be said about The Year of Pleasures

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780812970999
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 03/28/2006
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 240
Sales rank: 140,688
Product dimensions: 5.19(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.50(d)

About the Author

Elizabeth Berg is the New York Times bestselling author of many novels, including We Are All Welcome Here, The Year of Pleasures, The Art of Mending, Say When, True to Form, Never Change, and Open House, which was an Oprah’s Book Club selection in 2000. Durable Goods and Joy School were selected as ALA Best Books of the Year, and Talk Before Sleep was short-listed for the ABBY Award in 1996. The winner of the 1997 New England Booksellers Award for her body of work, Berg is also the author of a nonfiction work, Escaping into the Open: The Art of Writing True. She lives in Chicago.

To schedule a speaking engagement, please contact American Program Bureau at  


Chicago, Illinois

Date of Birth:

December 2, 1948

Place of Birth:

St. Paul, Minnesota


Attended the University of Minnesota; St. Mary¿s College, A.A.S.

Read an Excerpt

I had been right to want to drive to the Midwest, taking only the back roads. Every time my husband, John, and I had taken a trip more than a few miles away, we’d flown, and had endured the increasingly irritating airport protocols. I’d finally begun to wear what amounted to pajamas so that I wouldn’t have to all but strip before security guards who seemed either worrisomely bored or, equally worrisome, inflated with a mirthful self-importance. It was hard to believe that air travel had ever been considered glamorous, when now what most people felt was a seesawing between anxiety and exasperation. “Well, folks, looks like our time has been pushed back again,” the captain would say, and everyone would shake their heads and snap their newspapers and mutter to their neighbor. And if there was unexpected turbulence, a quivering silence fell.

Now, on this road trip, my mind seemed to uncrinkle, to breathe, to present to itself a cure for a disease it had not, until now, known it had. Rather than the back of an airline seat or endless, identical rest stops on the interstate, I saw farmhouses in the middle of protective stands of trees, silos reaching for the sky, barns faded to the soft red of tomato soup. The weather everywhere stayed stubbornly warm, and people seemed edgily grateful—what could this mean, sixty-degree weather in November? I drove through one small town where old people sat on rockers on front porches and kids tore around corners on bikes and young mothers, jackets tied around their waists, proudly pushed babies in strollers.

I passed white wooden churches, red brick schools, stores with names familiar only to the locals, and movie theaters offering a single choice. I saw cats stationed at living room windows, horses switching tails against clouds of gnats, cows in pastures grouped together like gossips. These scenes seemed imbued with a beauty richer than normal; they seemed so perfect as to have been staged. I felt as though I were driving through a museum full of pastoral bas-reliefs, and I took in the details that way, with wonder and appreciation. That was the tolerable part of my new vulnerability, the positive side of feeling my heart had migrated out of my body to hang on my chest like a necklace.

There was an infinite variety of trees, and I felt ashamed to know the names of so few of them. John and I used to talk about how the current phase of the moon as well as the names of trees and flowers and birds—at least the local ones!—should be front and center in people’s brains; maybe such a connection to nature would help to make us more civilized. But I was as guilty as anyone; the only tree I knew beyond pines and willows and birches was the black locust, and that was because I liked the way John had described the blossoms’ scent: like grape lollipops. I passed massive-trunked trees standing powerful and alone, and imagined how in summer their leafy canopy would provide a gigantic circle of shade. I passed a group of reedy saplings bending like ballerinas in the wind. Willow trees dipped their bare branches into pond water like girls testing the temperature with their toes.

I felt a low and distinct kind of relaxation. Time became real. Nature became real: the woods, the sky, the lakes, the high bluffs and low valleys, the acres of spent fields, the muddy riverbanks. Live photos flashed before me: Here, a construction worker eating a sandwich, one foot up on the bumper of his truck. Here, a woman in curlers loading groceries into her car. Here, a child glimpsed through a kitchen window, standing on a stool to reach into a cupboard; there, a beauty operator giving an old lady a perm.

I saw in a way I never had before the beauty and diversity of our earnest labor on the earth, and also our ultimate separateness. This helped my pain metamorphose into something less personal and more universal, something organic and natural. And that helped give me strength. Someone had to die first. It turned out to be John. Nothing more. Nothing less. What fell to me now, what I was driving toward, was the creation of a new kind of life, minus the ongoing influence of what I had loved and depended upon most in the world. In a way, my situation reminded me of a little girl I’d once seen exiting a roller coaster at a state fair, all wide eyes and pale face and shaky knees. When her brother asked if she’d like to ride again, she said, “Not until I’m way readier.” I felt myself trapped in line for a ride I was not nearly ready for, looking back but moving forward in the only direction I could go.

Mile by mile, the country unfurled before me—in bright morning light, throughout golden afternoons, under the pastel-colored skies of evenings. Once, just outside of Cleveland, when the sky was lavender and the clouds pink, I pulled to the side of the freeway to watch until darkness smudged the colors into night. Land rushed up, then fell away; rushed up, then fell away. I became intimately aware of the lay of the land, felt the rise and fall of it in my stomach as I drove up and down steep hills. I deliberately pushed everything out of my head but what was before me. Still, every now and then a quick thrill raced up my spine in the form of a thought: I am my own again. Sorrow that lay pooled inside me gave over to a kind of exhilaration in those moments; the relief was stunning.

Though impermanent. One night, I checked into a motel at around ten o’clock. Next door, I heard a couple making love. Their sounds were sloppy and slightly hysterical—Drunk, I thought. I turned the radio up loud, ran a bath, and while sitting at the edge of the tub unwrapping the absurdly little bar of soap, I felt the weight of my loss move slowly back into me. After I dried off, I sat before the television and marveled at the drivel that passed for entertainment. I turned it off, finally, then sat at the side of the bed and stared out at nothing. I picked up the telephone and dialed my home number. I heard the characteristic tones, then, The number you have reached has been disconnected. I hung up, closed my eyes, and took in a deep breath. Then I knelt at the side of the bed and pushed my face into my hands.

Late in the afternoon of the third day, I pulled over to a frozen-yogurt stand near the center of a small town that looked particularly attractive to me. A tall, early-thirtyish man waited on me. He was beginning to bald already and had a distressing complexion. But his eyes, as though in compensation, were a brilliant blue. “That’ll be a dollar sixty-five,” he said, handing me the raspberry cone I’d ordered. I pulled two dollars from my wallet and handed them to him, then took a lick of the yogurt. “Delicious,” I said, and smiled at him. He smiled back, hesitantly, then fussed with the register for a long while as I watched, first in mild annoyance, then in sympathy, finally in utter fascination. Eventually, the man turned and called to someone in the back room. “Louise?” he said, apparently too softly, for then he called a bit louder, “Louise?”

“WHAT?” she yelled back.

The man straightened the paper hat on his head. “Could you come out and help me?” he asked. “Please?”

Louise came out to the cash register, scowling. She was wearing a maroon sweat suit and was massively overweight. She wore her hair in a high ponytail. It was beautiful hair, thick and auburn-colored; I concentrated on it while she concentrated on me. Finally, I looked at her face. “Hello,” I said.

She jutted her chin at me. “How you doing.” There was mischief in her eyes.

“Was that you yelling back there?” I asked.

She grinned. “Yeah, that was me, whistling while I work.” She jerked her head toward the man. “This goes on all the livelong day.”

“Oh, well,” I said. “That’s all right.”

“Easy for you to say.” She turned to glare at the man, who studied his shoes. Then she fixed the register and stomped off.

“Okay!” the man said. “Says here I owe you thirty-five cents!” He handed me the change.

I thanked him, then, laughing, said, “Though I think you could have figured that out on your own.”

He looked doubtful.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Don’t you think we’re getting way too dependent on these damn machines?”

Now he looked grateful. “Idn’t it?”

I thanked him again and headed for the door. But I turned back before I opened it. “Could you tell me what town this is?”

He pointed to the floor. “This here town where we’re at now?”


He straightened, made himself taller. “This is Stewart, Illinois, and I’ll tell you what, it’s only forty-nine miles from Chicago. Exactamento. I been here my whole life. It’s a good town, Stewart. Is this what you’re looking for?”

I hesitated, then answered, “Yes.”

As I started to open the door again, I heard him clear his throat and say, “Miss?”

I turned back. He was blushing, but with a kind of borrowed confidence, he said, “Would you like to be on my radio show?”

I tried hard not to let my astonishment show. “You have a radio show?”

“Yes, ma’am, Talk of the Town. I get guests from town on, and we talk. That’s the show.”

I thought of the empty miles I’d driven through to get to this town, the few places of business I’d seen thus far. I didn’t recall anything that looked like it might be—or house—a broadcasting studio. “Where?” I asked.

“Right at WMRZ a few blocks over. It’s above the drugstore. I’ve had Louise on my show—we talked about yogurt: Where has it been and where is it going? Louise liked being on a lot, you can ask her. She got dressed up and everything, got herself a new purse for that show.” He lowered his voice and leaned over the counter to say, “Louise is the one sponsors me. Her bite is way worse than her bark, if you know what I mean.”

I hesitated, then refrained from correcting him. Instead, I said, “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

“So do you want to be on? I tape every Sunday morning. Six-thirty. You’d have to get up early, but you’re going to church, anyways, just get ready sooner.”

“Well, I . . .”

“You don’t need to answer now,” the man said. “ If you want to do it, just come back and see me here. Or you can call me. My name’s Ed Selwin. My number’s in the book. It’s spelled exactly more or less like it sounds. You can think on it. Just, I figured if you’s moving here, it’d be good to interview you. You being a new person and all.”

“But I . . . did I say I was moving here?”

“Not exactly. I just saw your loaded-up car with out-of-state plates, and then you said this is the town you were looking for . . .”

“I see.”

“And since you’d be a new person here, it’d be interesting to see where you came from and such. Like that. And don’t worry—people get nervous being on the radio, just a natural thing, but I’ll settle you right down.”

“Okay, well . . . I’ll let you know.” I waved goodbye and began licking the quickly melting yogurt. Inside the car, I started the engine, turned on the heat—the weather had finally become seasonally appropriate—and finished eating. I had an odd but familiar feeling inside, a kind of surety without grounding. It was something I often felt as a child, and it drove me to do things very quickly and without regret. I wondered if I should say, Yes, here, this is the place, just like that, and then go in search of somewhere to live. Why not? What had I to lose, really? I was in the middle of the country, as I’d wanted to be. It looked to be a charming little town. And anyway, I wouldn’t mind moving back toward a certain boldness of spirit, a reliance on a kind of luck I’d always enjoyed. I remembered a story I once heard about a couple from a farm in Iowa looking for a place to live in Washington, D.C. They weren’t having any success; everything was incredibly expensive, and to make matters worse, they had three dogs. They became greatly discouraged, and then one day the woman threw up her hands and said, “All right. Let’s just drive ten minutes one way and then turn left. And then drive ten minutes more and turn right. And then ten minutes straight, and if we don’t find something, we’ll give up.” What they drove to was a huge farmhouse just outside the city, and a man was standing outside of it. Feeling more than a little foolish, the couple asked if the man happened to know of anything around for rent. Turned out he had a little house on his property he used for hired hands that was newly vacated. Freshly painted. They could have it for next to nothing if they’d help a bit with chores. And three dogs? No problem. John once said, “Sometimes serendipity is just intention, unmasked.” I think I answered him with some sort of vague Mmm-hmm, right, hidden as I was behind the Globe’s book review. But I’d always remembered it. And now I thought I knew what he’d meant. When you were willing to say what you really wanted, something just might help you along.

Reading Group Guide

1. Betta’s departure from Boston at the beginning of the book is abrupt, even rushed. Is her choice to move so quickly a good one? What is she running away from, and what is she running toward?

2. In the early pages of the book, while driving to the Midwest with all of her belongings in tow, Betta finds an unexpected freedom and relaxation. What does moving, or even driving, have to do with this release Betta feels?

3. Moving to a new place fulfills a promise Betta had made to John, but she makes the move alone. Discuss the ways that Betta finds strength and independence in her new life. In the moments when that strength falters, how does she cope?

4. Do you think Betta has made a mistake in forsaking her friends for the intensity of a lifetime with John? How do you balance the intimacy of a partner and children with female friends in your own life?

5. John and Betta never had children. Do you think the intense closeness they shared would have been diminished or improved if they had been able to have children? Would Betta have been as close to John if she had to find a place in her life for children? And would her grief have been helped if she had had someone else to share her loss with?

6. Betta hopes to love John and to be loved by him after his death. Does she succeed? Do you think love can transcend death?

7. Betta refers to a belief that one can be closer to someone after death than before. What does she mean when she says this? Have you experienced this in your own life?

8. Do you agree with the philosopher Kierkegaard’s suggestion that no matter how many years have passed, when good friends meet again, they will simply pick up where they left off? How does this play out in the novel? In your own life?

9. Is Betta’s relationship with Tom doomed from the start? Why or why not?

10. Why do Betta and Matthew become friends? Do they want the same things from the friendship? Do you agree with the decision Betta makes, to rent the room in his apartment?

11. Betta says there are times when food is not just food. She uses food to heal, to comfort, and to seduce. Are there other ways in which food is important in this novel? In your own life, what roles do food and cooking play?

12. Finding joy in small things is important to Betta, and she uses joy as a vehicle for change. Do you agree with her philosophy? If so,
what small things bring you great happiness? If not, why not?

13. What does Betta’s store symbolize? How does opening the store change her personality and emotions? How important is taking chances when creating a new life? Have you ever undertaken a similar project?

14. A major theme of the novel is the transformation of tragedy into joy. Could Betta have found this particular kind of joy without the tragedy of losing John? How does the relationship between tragedy and joy operate, in both the book and your own life?

Customer Reviews

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Year of Pleasures 4.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 95 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
A wonderful read, the kind of book you want to curl up with on a lazy, rainy afternoon next to the fire...
Guest More than 1 year ago
Elizabeth Berg owes me a box of kleenex and a night's sleep. This book was touching and delicious. Berg has the uncanny ability to touch your soul and speak to you through her words. Her characters are people you know or wish you knew. I routinely find myself picking up her books, knowing that I will use a whole lot of kleenex and an entire night's sleep - I just can't put her books down - even if I want to.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I read this book for bookclub and enjoyed it. Women that were grieving said the book was spot on for how they felt after there losses.It was nice how she was able to reconnect with her college friends but a little too convenient. Also nice that she had a lot of money. Many widowed women do not have that conevience.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I bought this based upon all of the stars but how could it be that, after having read it, I could not agree with everyone. I do agree Berg writes well but she lacks the ability to create dialog. In order for you to get her point, she makes statement after statement about the same thing totally boring, making it necessary to skip paragraphs because she beats the horse to death. She also uses "I" constantly, over and over and over. Do not be fooled by the stars; the book is not worth it. The ending was flat, like she just tossed it together to get the book completed.
VirtuousWomanKF More than 1 year ago
I always find Elizabeth Berg's novels to be very thought provoking. How would I find myself after many years of marraige to be alone, trying to find my way? Great book for bookclubs, should spark some great discussions.
BevE More than 1 year ago
This is the second time around for me in reading, The Year of Pleasures and I loved it as much this time as the first. Elizabeth Berg has a style of writing that makes you feel like your coming home to a place that you've never been before. Many of her books are written with the older woman in mind, women who are coming to terms with the inevitable of losing their life long partner. It's part of a game many women play, the 'what if' game. What if he goes first, what if I do? Ms Berg, takes the reader through the grieving process, the coping, and the surviving, all with a happy ending that makes her stories so endearing to women of a 'certain age'. The Year of Pleasures is a reminder that starting over is never easy but when done with an open heart anything is possible.
kimberouch More than 1 year ago
I won this book years ago in a giveaway and have started to read it many times but couldn't get past the first few pages. Don't mistake it being hard to read but instead it truly captured the feelings of grief right from the get go. I lost my mom years ago and needed time before I could feel someone else's. Betta's loss was overwhelming but her strength gave her the ability to find the new path and the people to travel with. With nothing else to do she was able to move into a house based on a feeling, find old friends to help her through the grief, and create a new life. The lessons I took from this book are easy to live but also easy to forget. Firstly, each person should find a pleasure in each day. Secondly, explaining why you want something is unnecessary. "Because I like it" is the perfect answer to wanting something. And thirdly, trust your feelings. Betta found a town and a house based on a feeling. She found her way through a lot of soul searching and help from those around her. This book is an easy quick read full of many emotions. It lets me know that finding a new way is possible even in the darkest of days.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
An excellent read for young widows who are struggling to deal with their loss. It is also a good book for her friends to read to help them understand the feelings she is going through.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Unlike some of the reviewers of The Year of Pleasures: I did NOT find the characters 'or the setting' ¿June Clever-ish¿ I DON¿T think Betta ¿selfish¿ nor did I find the characters too ¿Goodie-goodie¿. A recent widow myself, I admired her tenacity in starting a new/different life and not lolling in her grief. Death is a part of life, and life goes on¿..why not LIVE it? I agree that Elizabeth Berg DOES speak to one¿s soul. The psychology/philosophy she ¿slips¿ into her stories adds so much to her characters and speaks volumes as to the kind of person the author is¿¿kind, compassionate, and insightful. I just discovered her less than a month ago, have read five of her novels and have two ¿in the wings¿ waiting to be read. I was torn between reading the book slowly, to savor it, and reading it quickly, to see how the story developed. I have recommended it to many, and plan to re-read it after I finish ¿The Art of Mending¿. I hope Berg has many more stories where her others came from¿¿..I am an ardent fan. Thank you for ¿hours of pleasures'.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This novel is about the first few months of widowhood for a woman in her mid-fifties. I won't dwell on the actual storyline, as other reviewers have already done that. The characters in the story, and the small town featured, all seem to be a bit 'June Cleaver'-ish, especially for the 21st century. However, the swing of emotions, thought processes, and decisions made/felt by the widow seemed very realistic. In my 50's myself, and in a happy marriage, I can imagine that I would go through much of what Betta Nolan did if my own husband were to die. The story is really a lovely 'and quick' read. Its characters, although a bit corny, were enjoyable to read about. I just finished another good novel by Ms. Berg, 'We Are All Welcome', and its characters and story were not nearly as perfect or impossibly sweet. So I am sure I will be reading quite a few more books by Elizabeth Berg.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The author does an excellent job of delighting the reader with wry humor,while telling a story of bullying,scandal, and a dysfunctional family in turmoil The main character,the precocious twelve year old boy,Christopher,is thoroughly engaging You will want to know his story!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Throughout this story, I found it difficult to find believeable. The main character makes some unlikely friends and does some things that I couldn't relate to. A 50 year old widow hanging out with 20-somethings? The book started out well but seemed to lose the thread of what could've been a more interesting story, almost as if the book was started and finished by two different people.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Completely unbelievable. Poor writing, unrealistic, choppy sentences, Not worth the time.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
indygo88 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I have a lot of Elizabeth Berg novels on my shelf, waiting to be read, but I haven't yet read enough of them to decide whether or not I really enjoy her writing. This one centers around a 55-year-old recently widowed woman who decides to move to a small town in the Midwest & start her life anew. However, as might be expected, she has a lot of trouble getting past the death of her husband & much of the book deals with her grieving process. While I can't pretend to know what it's like to be in her shoes & don't particularly want to be, I found this story somewhat depressing. Obviously, the death of a spouse is going to be depressing. But the continual grieving just became annoying to me after a while & I was ready for Betta to move on. There were some really nice moments in this book, but overall, it won't be something that's going to stick with me for a long time.
punxsygal on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A novel of learning to live after loss. I wished I had been reading my own copy with a highlighter in hand--there was much that I wanted to remember.
rachelellen on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Elizabeth Berg has done it again, with this book whose characters are knowable and whose issues resonate even for those who've never dealt with them in reality.
Brandie on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Sweet book. A bit hard for me to relate to as not having that life experience, but yet, not too difficult that I couldn't kind of get it ... if that makes sense. Anyway, I enjoy it. This is the second Berg novel I have read and I have a feeling I will be reading others as well!
Mychiefthemama on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Given to me by Linda for my birthday. A peaceful read.
gypsysmom on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I suppose this would be classified as women's literature as I can't see a man reading it. Nevertheless, it would be a good idea for men to read it. There's a quote on the front of this book from The Seattle TimesMaybe Freud didn't know the answer to what women want, but Elizabeth Berg certainly does.And that is very true. Elizabeth Berg also knows the ins and outs to a good marriage which is something all of us married people need to be reminded of from time to time. Certainly, I do.Betta has just lost her husband John to liver cancer at the (as I think of it now from the age of 57) young age of 55. Following the plan they had made together Betta sold their house in Boston and got into her car and drove west. In a small town close to Chicago she found a house she liked the looks of and bought it. All of her friends in Boston told her it was too soon to take such a step but she felt it was right. She didn't really have any close friends because she and John had completed each other so totally that she didn't feel the need of friends. So now here she was in a town where she knew no-one trying to start her life over. Sometimes she is convinced she has made the right choice and sometimes she is terrified. The ending is a little too pat for my tastes but the journey there was exquisitely rendered.I especially liked the idea of the little pieces of paper John left for Betta of things they had talked about to remind her of the pleasures awaiting her. Some of them Betta doesn't understand ever, some she understands only after a time and some she knows exactly what John was telling her.
schoolnurse on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Someone picked this book to read in my book club. We've read a few of Berg's other books but this one I have to admit was a little depressing due to the subject. I don't know if I would go out of my way to recommend this book to others but it is a quick easy read.
PaperbackPirate on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I've been putting off reading this book because it's about a woman whose husband has died and I have been trying not to read books with dead husbands. This book wasn't overly sad though. The widow gets in her car and drives until she gets to a town she feels she should live in. The citizens and her long-lost college roommates help her put her life back together as she tries to make sense of the little notes her husband left her to find after he died. I liked this story because it reminded me of The Mitford Series by Jan Karon, where one person's problem is another person's solution.
juliahuprich on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Nice, easy read -- thought-provoking, sad at times, and very good.
blondestranger on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This book was very cookie-cutter and things worked out a bit too perfectly to be believable. Too many random plots and the character seemed a little too willing to move on in her new single life after losing a husband whom she had dedicated her life to previously - to the point that she didn't have any other relationships/friendships. I finished the book since I was listening to it as I commuted, but if I had been reading the book, I probably would have found something more stimulating to read instead.
TooBusyReading on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
As a disclaimer, I read this book because it is a selection for my F2F book club, and probably is not a book that would have chosen to read otherwise. When I was first told about this selection, I thought it was going to be nonfiction, but no, it is a relatively short novel.Betta Nolan loses her much beloved husband to cancer when she is too old to be a young woman and too young to be an old woman, when she doesn't know quite who she is. She has isolated herself and had no real friends except for her husband. Alone, adrift, she takes a road trip to find a new place to live, a small town where she can begin again.I loved the descriptions of the small town she found. I loved the different personalities of the friends who entered her life. I especially loved the tiny slips of paper that her husband left her, each with a word or two or three that were meaningful in some way. Some she understood and some she didn't, at least not yet, and that felt right.What I didn't like quite so much was her total self-absorption, completely understandable for this character, but it became a little boring to read. Her husband became almost a saint in her eyes, and that got old.The Year of Pleasures is a sweet, pleasant read, but not one that I will remember a year from now.