The thread that weaves through all of Tomlin's work is a great respect for her inventions. [Tomlin] never condescends to even the most absurd of her characters. And this same integrity extends to her audience. She demands compassion. (p. 34)

[Tomlin's art lies in the] Southern fondness for family and for storytelling itself, with all the moles and stinks of character, the crowded rooms with linoleum floors, the smell of cabbage on the stove, the formica-topped diners, the sorrows and glories of drink, and the love that somehow makes a whole fabric out of what could easily be (in a lesser talent) only a thin, bleak, adolescent cry. (pp. 35-6)

Tomlin's monologues have [the same spellbinding quality as Ruth Draper's]. She clearly cares deeply about her characters, and that poignancy has a lot to do with the way she can conjure and recall her own childhood. And perhaps capture someone else's as well. (p. 37)