Near perfect.

It truly captures the beauty, tragedy, and horror that can exist within the prosaic.

This work serves as a powerful demonstration of the uselessness of prisons.

It is deeply concerning that so many people seem to believe that there wasn't enough excitement in the prison, as if more shanking and raping were somehow desirable.

We must realize that not everything that occurs in such a setting is meant to be some form of pornographic entertainment for free people.

Prisons are complex and often dark places, and we should approach them with a sense of understanding and a desire for reform, rather than simply looking for something sensational to titillate our curiosity.

By highlighting the true nature of prisons in this way, we can hopefully begin to have more meaningful conversations about how to improve the criminal justice system and address the root causes of crime.

Quite strange, but quite beautiful - Cheever’s flowing prose kept me engrossed in Farragut’s evolution inside prison walls. It was truly a captivating experience to follow the journey of Farragut as Cheever painted a vivid picture with his words. The descriptions were so detailed that I could almost envision the prison environment and the changes that Farragut was going through. Each sentence seemed to flow seamlessly into the next, drawing me deeper and deeper into the story. I found myself completely invested in Farragut’s fate, eager to see how he would grow and change within the confines of the prison. Cheever’s writing style is truly unique, and it made this story a memorable one. I would highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys reading about the human experience and the power of transformation.

There was still a glimmer of light in the window.

The dance music was streaming out from Randome's radio, and at the end of the corridor on TV, he could observe a group of people in turmoil.

An old man was completely lost in the memories of the past, while a young man was utterly intoxicated with the dreams of the future.

There was a young woman who was having difficulties with her lovers, and an old woman who could be seen stealthily hiding gin bottles in hatboxes, refrigerators, and bureau drawers.

Looking out of the window beyond their heads and shoulders, Farragut could see the waves crashing onto a white beach, the streets of a village, and the trees of a forest.

But the question lingered in his mind: Why did they all choose to stay in one room, arguing and quarreling, when they had the freedom to walk to the store, enjoy a picnic in the woods, or take a refreshing swim in the sea?

They had the liberty to do all of these things. So, why did they remain indoors?

Why couldn't they hear the sea's call as clearly as Farragut did, and envision the purity of the brine as it spread out over the beautiful pebbles?

It was a mystery that Farragut couldn't quite fathom.

I didn't rate it. I don't know what to think of it. I read it but understood very little.

It seems like a Dostoyevsky who woke up in the US in the 1950s, still a bit dazed from the space/time jump.

It's not the story itself that eluded me, but the subtext.

Generally, I like the "minor" novels of the 1950s (from Wallace to Buck, via Bromfield and a plethora of Americans I find in the Medusa reminders), but this one has higher ambitions than simply narrating the failed historical moment of Farragut.

The fratricidal Oppiomane who is compared in the afterword by Fofi to a new FSFitzgerald (not as a writer, but as a character), something that makes me pull FSF down from the shelves and reread him, just to reacquaint myself with something I understand, and it makes my neurons enjoy while I read.

Yes, perhaps it's this, Falconer doesn't make me enjoy, on the contrary it keeps me on edge, not because of the narrated matter (I've read more creepy and anguishing prison stories) but because I always have the impression that something eludes me. It makes me feel stupid, not up to it. And among all the reasons why I read, that of feeling stupid at the moment has not made the list.