Sleepless Nights [is] a very beautiful and concise probe of the past told by a woman called Elizabeth.

I have almost nothing negative to say about this book: There are a few dead phrases, i.e., "moral unease hurt" and "I stepped into [the rooms] with the feeling of falling into a well of disgrace." Also, the second half of the book is a small letdown—stories of disappointment, despair, and the bittersweet ironies of aging—by comparison to the first half's extraordinarily powerful stories of promise, reckless extravagance, and determination.

But mostly Hardwick's sentences sing. By saying just enough, and never too much, she has perfected the art of making private meaning public. Hardwick passes the test autobiographical works always set: to write about passion, anger, and betrayal without blathering, sentimentalizing, or fuming. She sees the past with a clarity and a freedom from judgment that come...