Born of money in aristocratic New Orleans and married into millions more in the Washington power bubble, Delery Anhalt nonetheless arrives at middle age nagged by disappointment.

She is encaged, albeit behind gilded bars, by marital deception, professional irrelevance, waning maternal influence and the inexorable erosion of her past, one nearly wholly defined by her father, a demanding, adventurous, eccentric man who devoted as much time to learning ancient Greek as he did to rearing his daughter.

Delery dissects her dilemma in this diaristic collection of introspective essays. Often acerbic in tone, they display a keen eye, a polished intellect, and, ultimately, an enduring realization bordering on sadness that what she expects would be most impactful in life (say the death of a parent) pales in comparison to other random moments (for instance, the self-possessed magnificence of lions in repose).

As testament to the authenticity of Delery’s narrative voice – or perhaps to my own naivete – once I stopped reading to search whether “The Oyster Diaries” is indeed fiction. (It is.) Thereby assured, I continued on and encountered what always happens when someone, whether in print or at a dinner table, bares his or her soul: a pendulum of interest swinging from fascination to indifference.

The New York Times, in an effusive review, says Lemann’s books are “for the misanthropes, the anti-socialites, those with negative self-regard.” (Me, checking the mirror. Yep.) It is also a book for readers capable of forgiveness, in this case of pardoning the less-fulfilling excesses of Lemann/Delery, and enjoying the overall clarity of language, vision, and humanity that makes “The Oyster Diaries” worth your time.