It's interesting that most reviewers seem to be buying the title of Dagoberto Gilb's excellent Woodcuts of Women without considering its possible ironic value. I think calling this a collection of stories about women is, as they say, like calling Moby Dick a book about a whale. Gilb's stories are really about men, and the women they obsess about are merely glimpsed as reflections -- double reflections, in fact, as the women who appear in the stories are usually just convenient stand-ins for absent or unattainable women somewhere offstage. None of which is to say that it isn't a fine book (especially as enhanced with Artemio Rodriguez's woodcuts).