The main thing, obviously, is that a guy read a book, written by a woman and meant for a woman, and walked away feeling short of breath. I don't have a vagina and I haven't been divorced. But it would be crude murder to deny that I thoroughly identified with this woman. Her love of culinary satiation, her intense experience of romance — both dream and reality --, and the magma-like intensity of her meta-experience, thinking about everything, worrying about everything, narrating everything at the speed of Woody Allen. It's a bit hard to admit when you think of yourself as the next guy, but you actually let out a feminine moan when you finish the book.
What else can one say? I'm still in some kind of post-coital glow and pant that can only be induced by a book that has left you wanting more out of life.