Like so many young women in journalism, I am a Joan Didion devotee. Likewise, I am a major fan of Eve Babitz. While I admit some passages in “Black Swans” gave me a bit of a headache, I find her life and work enchanting. So, imagine my shock when a book about two of my literary favorites left me with a sour taste in my mouth.

The grand narrative of grief as only a sequential, paralyzing melancholy is outdated. Its rewrite as an inspiring, if not painful, mania is past due.