Wurtzel’s book has not aged well – it is stuck in the 90s, po-faced and narcissistic. It lacks the note of authenticity that characterises the best books about mental illness. Wurtzel is also unsure exactly how she feels about the drug. At one point she gushes, “Prozac was the miracle that saved my life.” Several pages later, though, she admits that “the secret I sometimes think that only I know is that Prozac really isn’t that great”.
Wow, can’t it be both? Also, can’t it be a perfect picture of the 90s instead of stuck in the 90s? These haters need to check out some Zoloft.
For those who found her NY Mag piece too polished and thought-out