After writing histories of other emotions–anger, jealousy–the topic of happiness should be a snap for author Sally Farber. But of course, thinking about happiness (and whether you’re happy or not) is the surest way to succumbing to the deep, looming realization that of course you’re not. So she does what any self-respecting writer would do; that is, she procrastinates, rewrites, procrastinates some more, and has a wild affair with a self-absorbed artist. I liked this novel. Recommend.