It’s largely about sex. There’s only one story where the woman is the narrator. And there’s a lot of cheating done by the novel’s men, a lot of minimizing the feelings of their girlfriends.
But somehow, in spite of all that, the novel feels like it’s about real, true, deep love—from men to women. Men may make light of the women in their lives, but they are consumed by desire, by their love for those women.
It’s a set of short stories that where men hold women in awe, see them as marvelous, but also as real and human.
In the end, there is nothing more important than women in these stories. Nothing more important than the love men feel for women.
There aren’t very many men who can convincingly portray these sorts of emotions about women, who can offer an image of the power men’s love for women can hold over them. Faulkner could do it. Salman Rushdie does it. But no one does it quite like Junot Diaz