Update to my review after seeing the movie version 2/2014. The movie focuses on the first 180 pages about Peter and Beverly's magical romance. There are elements of the battle between good and evil, but the movie certainly can't include the entire book. Well done, I thought.

Re-read Winter's Tale in April 2013. Extraordinary writing. I am at a loss to describe this masterpiece of literature. As Newsday Magazine says, "It is a gifted writer's love affair with the language."

The almost 800 pages of reading is both taxing and magical. I had to linger on passages and reread them because of the beauty. The opening scene with Athansor, the white horse, is marvelous. The character of Peter Lake, who couldn't seem to die is unforgettable, as is Beverly, the woman who couldn't stop loving him even after her death. Lastly, the city of New York, described during the many winters in a millenium. It combines historical fiction, magical realism, and historical fantasy. It is utterly compelling.

"Peter Lake had beard Beverly say that the greater the stillness, the farther you could travel, until, in absolute immobility, you achieved absolute speed. If you could hold your breath, batten yourself down, and stop every atom from its agitation within you, she had said, you could vault past infinity." p. 184.

Have I yet grasped the book's meaning? I'm not sure Helprin wants me to. As one of his characters says, "His strategy was to make each hour more intense than the hour that preceded it. The idea was to hold them off balance, shock them, disorient them, wade into their sensibilities, blind them with flashing lights, and hit hard and harder, so that the opposition might be incapacitated, and the bridge might take." (592)

This book is a complex and multi-layered work that invites readers to explore its many themes and ideas. It challenges our perception of reality and takes us on a journey through time and space. The writing is rich and evocative, painting a vivid picture of a world that is both familiar and strange. Whether you are a fan of historical fiction, magical realism, or just great literature, Winter's Tale is a book that is sure to captivate and inspire you.

This is truly a fabulous read that I cannot recommend enough. The writing is simply gorgeous, transporting the reader into a fantastical world of love and loss. Set in the mythical turn of the century in New York City, this tale is both enchanting and heart-wrenching.

It weaves together elements of romance, mystery, and magic in a way that is both captivating and unique. The characters are well-developed and the plot is full of twists and turns that keep you on the edge of your seat from beginning to end.

I have read countless books in my lifetime, but this one truly stands out as one of my top ten favorites of all time. It is a book that I will return to again and again, each time finding something new and wonderful to discover.

Jeannie

This may be the strangest, most beautiful and most frustrating book I have ever read.

In terms of language, Helprin is truly a poet. His words dance and sing on the page, painting vivid pictures that linger in the mind. However, this very strength can also be a weakness when it comes to the story.

The story is Helprin's vision of New York City, a place that comes alive in his writing. But a poetic vision does not always translate seamlessly into a coherent plot. There are times when the narrative seems to meander, and the reader is left wondering where it is all going.

Yet, despite these flaws, the characters in the book are so vivid and memorable that they draw the reader in and keep them engaged. Peter Lake, Beverly Penn, Hardesty Marratta, Jackson Mead, Praeger de Pinto, Harry Penn, Virginia Gamely, Pearly Soames, and a white horse named Athansor all exist in a world that is both shining and fluctuating, as mysterious as the white cloud wall that rises around New York.

At times, it requires a great deal of effort to suspend disbelief and enter into this fantastical world. But after 748 pages, I found myself sad that the book was over. It's as if Gabriel Garcia Marquez channeled Walt Whitman and E.L. Doctorow to create this unique and unforgettable work.

Helprin took a huge risk with this book, and in the end, it pays off. He is creating a myth, a story that speaks to the deepest desires of the human heart. His characters want what most of us want: love, purpose, eternity, and a touch of the empyrean. And in the end, that is what makes this book so special.

Christmas is right around the corner, but I have to confess that I’m just not feeling it this year. I’m not sure why, but perhaps some holiday reading would help?

That’s what I thought I was getting with this, but I have to confess that “Winter’s Tale” (why no article?) is the literary equivalent of a date with a crazy person. Don’t believe me? I’ll set the scene.

You arrive and immediately realize this was a bad idea, because while you’ve only just sat down they’re already on about how cute their sister’s new baby is — or was it her pet corgi? — and, oh, don’t you want to see a photo? No, no you don’t want to see a photo. But you’re polite, you don’t say that, you just continue sitting there, sipping your lukewarm water, shredding a napkin between your fingers, willing the hours to tick by faster. Then they start telling you how they love to masturbate between the pages of their favorite novel.

“What’s the novel?” You ask, suddenly interested.

“Winter’s Tale!” they say.

“Without an article?” you ask, aghast.

“Just read it,” they say “and tell me you don’t love it!”

So you pick it up at a bookshop on the way home, believing that a person’s recommended book says more about them than they ever could. You get home, heat up some cocoa, and start reading.

It’s not soon before you’re wishing, “oh, if only the pages really were stuck together! Whatever it takes so I don’t have to read another horribly written page!”

But they’re not. So you keep reading because you’re only 30 pages in. Then 40. Then 50. Then … wait. How long are you supposed to keep reading before you call it quits and vow never to see that person again?

Yes, this is THAT book. The one that people rave about endlessly like it saved them from suicide in the middle of a dreary night, and all you can think about is how you would have been spared your own “Winter’s Tale” fueled desire to kill yourself if they had just done it in the first place.

“Winter’s Tale”? As in, the story OF winter? The arrogance!

If this is really going to try and stake a claim to being the definitive tale of old man winter, than I say bring on global warming!

So what is this story actually about? Well, this is what I gathered from the first 50 pages or so, before I decided to warm myself up by tossing the book into the fireplace.

1. There’s a guy named Peter. Lake. Yes, Peter Lake. Like a large body of water. Anyway, Peter’s parents are immigrants who, we’re told, were rejected entry into the U.S. (and they weren’t even Muslim!) but, instead of packing up and heading back to wherever they came from, they set their son adrift in a little basket (or something) off the side of the ship they came in on. You know, because they think it would be best if their baby son grows up on his own in a big foreign city.

Instead of washing up in New York, though, where all foreigners long to land, the tides bear young Peter to some fantastical marsh lands around New Jersey or something (poor bastard) where his destiny is to be a Moses to the marsh people.

2. There’s a white horse. The story is initially told from the horse’s point of view, but it shifts after about 10 pages, never to return (at least, not before I stopped reading). That’s a pity because this horse is magical or something. Like a pegasus without wings, or that god thingy in “The Neverending Story”. On my book cover it’s shown flying over the title … perhaps it made off with the missing “A”.

3. There’s a villain named Pearly who heads a menacing gang called the “short tails”. If that doesn’t have you quaking in your boots, the revelation that Pearly is obsessed with shiny objects, like a goddamn magpie or something, might. He’s got a particular longing for gold, not because it’s valuable, but because it’s shiny. He wants to make a room out of the stuff. In his quest to do so he hatches a plot to steal lots of gold from an armored ship. He tells his gang this while in their usual meeting place, an underground, currently non-golden room in a tunnel of the New York sewer system.

In case you missed it that Pearly really, really likes gold (why not pearls?) we have this explanation:

“Pearly Soames wanted gold and silver, but not, in the way of common thieves, for wealth. He wanted them because they shone and were pure. Strange, afflicted, and deformed, he sought a cure in the abstract relation of colors. But though he was drawn to fine and intense color, he was no connoisseur. Connoisseurs of paintings were curiously indifferent about color itself, and were seldom possessed by it … Not Pearly. Pearly’s attraction to color was like an infection, or religion, and he came to it each time a starving man. Sometimes, on the street or sailing along in a fast skiff, he would witness the sun’s illumination of color that was given (like almost everything else in New York) a short and promiscuous embrace. Pearly always stopped, and if he froze in the middle of the street, traffic was forced to weave around him. Or, if he were on a boat, he turned it to the wind and stayed with the color for as long as it lasted.”

Doesn’t that make you just go all soft for Pearly? What a romantic! “Chasing sunsets in my boat, wherever the wind takes me, because I need colors like I need an infection contracted from a promiscuous embrace!” And this all before the days of e-harmony and Match.com.

Now, if that’s the kind of writing you enjoy, you’ll be thrilled to know that “Winter’s Tale” is chock full of it! Over 600 pages worth to be exact!

But, alas, I fear it’s not for me.

“Winter’s Tale” belongs to “The English Patient” school of writing. Which is to say, a school for people who like to read words because they like the way words look on a page, not because they like what words mean. They desire to inject words into their pretentious little veins and get high on them, yet remain numbed to their meaning. And there are many, many, MANY words here to get high on. They mean nothing, and the way they are used and overused is so “high-brow American lit” it appears the brows aren’t even there but have run off with your nose, which is why you can’t tell that this thing stinks to high heaven.

“Winter’s Tale” is clearly the result of a New York wet dream Mark Halprin had. I’ve read my fair share of erotica, but I have never read anything as perverse, as degrading, as rapey, as Mark Halprin’s treatment of New York here. If this had been written about a woman, she’d be crying #MeToo into the pages.

Every character, even that magical horse-dog from “The Neverending Story”, has a line about how much they love not just New York, but Manhattan in particular. They’re about as Woody Allen on Manhattan as Woody Allen is on his stepdaughter.

Oh, I can’t stay away, the horse thinks, that’s why I’m so willing to break out of my owner’s barn. Simply strutting the streets of Manhattan in my horsey way makes it worth the beating that I’m sure to get when I return!

Peter Lake, too, is willing to risk life and limb — leaving the protection of the marsh people and the, ahem, “cloud gate” — to go to Manhattan. And of course we know Pearly loves it — he’s using the city sewers as his office!

A film adaptation of “Winter’s Tale” came out some years ago starring Colin Farrell to terrible reviews and an anemic box office. Perhaps that’s because in movies you can’t just go “blah blah blah” about chasing sunsets and loving shiny things like an infectious disease and expect people to care.

“Artless grace” says Joyce Carol Oats in a blurb on the back of my copy. Dictionary definition: “Artless” = “without effort or pretentiousness; natural and simple”?

Without pretension?? Natural??? Seriously, Joyce, did you read the same book I did?

Oh, but the book has brought a smile to my lips at last, because it does crackle so nicely in the flames.

A Merry, Happy Christmas to one and all.

This is a truly magical book.

It is brimming with poetic beauty and wild adventure, making it extremely difficult for me to precisely capture the essence of this wonderful literary work.

Don't ever assume that you can easily figure out this story. It has the power to deceive you, tease you, and leave you utterly perplexed in certain parts.

Yet, it also has the charm that makes you eager to read more.

The complexities within this work are sometimes so abundant that it becomes a bit of a double-edged sword, which is why I was initially hesitant to give it a full five stars.

However, in the end, I had to do so because this book contains some of the most outstanding written passages I have ever encountered in modern writing.

Mr. Helprin possesses an astonishing artistic vision, and my inability to fully understand it does not in any way reduce its scope, its genius, or its magnificence.

There is little practical value in summarizing this novel. Just let it unfold naturally, and it will reveal itself in ways that are indescribable.

Even if I were able to jot down a fairly decent summary, you still wouldn't truly grasp the essence of the story until you read it for yourself.

And that's exactly how it should be.

This is not a simple genre historical novel nor is it just a mere adventure story.

If that's what you're seeking, you'd better look elsewhere.

But if you渴望 to沉浸于 a book that will leave you breathless, hungry for more, filled with beauty, vexed, and even laughing out loud, then set aside a week or two (I managed to read it in a week, but it required great focus) and尽情享受 the richness of its language and fantastical passion.

UGH. Thank god I finally finished this. It took me 7 weeks!!

This is a book that has been sitting on my to-be-read shelf for a while. It's a one-time New York Times bestseller (honestly, that's like a Grammy, who hasn't gotten that accolade?) and has turned into sort of a cult classic, I think. I liked the font on the spine and it seemed like a book people love.

Well, not me. This was published in 1983, and there is a quote on the front from the New York Times Book Review: "a great gift in an hour of great need". Bah, what the hell do you know, 1983?

Basically, it is a paean to New York City and some sort of rumination on justice and fate and time.

Here is the first sentence: "a great city is nothing more than a portrait of itself, and yet when all is said and done, its arsenals of scenes and images are part of a deeply moving plan". Ok, I was instantly annoyed, and I pretty much remained annoyed throughout the entire goddamn 688 pages of this book. What the hell does that mean, it's nothing more than a portrait of itself? This is how he writes. "look at all those dignified eagles up there," she said to the driver. "if they didn't look like they were made of porcelain and gold, I would swear that they were justices of the supreme court, in retirement". Ok, this is why the book is 688 pages long. Helprin is describing a sled ride, the rider looks up and sees eagles in the trees. Which look like supreme court justices, or they would, if they didn't look like they were porcelain and gold ornaments. I mean, ffs. What a fucking useless sentence. Haven't quite got the description, let's just throw another metaphor on top of it.

Ok, as I read, I first thought, oh, this is magical realism. Magical things happen - a horse flies, for example. Then I thought, no, this is a tall tale. This is just like freaking Paul Bunyan and his blue ox Babe. And then I thought, no, this is just purely absurdist fiction. The characters are as annoying as the writing. They're all just incredibly freaking exceptional. There's this sort of libertarian vibe of working and becoming great and super rich, but a lot of characters just waltz into New York, immediately meet someone who hooks them up with an awesome situation, and prosper easily. Here's one patriarch who founds a newspaper (which ends up with this economy where everyone makes the same incredibly generous salary, whether the head of the paper or the janitor who cleans the toilet, but then they get shares with seniority and award which build in competition as well. So welcome to your perfect happy amalgam of communism and capitalism where everyone works over 12 hours a day because they love it so much and their entire life revolves around the newspaper). The patriarch works his way up from being a cabin boy on a whaling ship to owning a fleet of vessels, which he sells just as the whaling industry is going to collapse and starts the newspaper etc. Here is his skillset: "he knew how to run a tight ship, the best way to treat a crew, the means to navigate through darkness and storms, how to find elusive and valuable whales, and the trick of writing in the log all the news of the day both clearly and economically. He knew how to keep perfect accounts, how to arrange efficiently the plan of the decks, and when to sell his oil. He had placed correspondents in foreign ports to send back news of other fleets, to prepare him for the fluctuations of the market. He had patience - he could pursue good fortune relentlessly, or wait for it to come within reach - and he himself had driven not a few well-placed harpoons." They're all like this. They all have this litany of exceptional skills, whether at commerce, thieving, mechanics, fishing, or just running a household and doing a prodigious amount of cooking and food preparation while seeming to spend most of the time sitting around cuddling a chicken. So you don't relate to any of the characters, none of them seem the slightest bit real. They're all sooooo beautiful and sooooo intelligent and soooo graceful - or if they're not, they're just as exceptional in their ugliness, stupidity, clumsiness, and yet they still thrive. So it's 688 pages and I don't like anyone, they're all characters in a tall tale.

"Peter Lake and Beverly took a table and ordered a bottle of champagne, which was brought to them in a silver bucket full of hysterical ice". Hysterical ice. Again, wtf does that mean? That sounds like Bob Dylan's stream of consciousness nonsense novel Tarantula. You just go along reading this overblown prose with comparison after comparison piled on that seems to be trying to say something optimistic about justice and destiny and time and the afterlife and miracles and work, but what the hell it's actually trying to say, I don't know. And every once in a while, something stands out as particularly obtuse or annoying or egregious. Like a list of characters' names. These are book reviewers at a newspaper: "they looked and dressed exactly alike [there are a LOT of groups of characters who look exactly alike. At one point Helprin writes that one cohort is fat with this kind of nose and this kind of chin and this kind of hair and asks, why do they look like this without exception, except for the other kind, who are thin with this kind of nose and this kind of chin and this kind of hair?] - five feet two inches tall, 108 pounds, brushy mustache, stomach length beard, long bony hands, gray hair parted down the middle, black wire-rimmed glasses, undertakers' suits, stringy ties, and crossed eyes. They sat next to each other in a ramrod-straight row and read twenty books a day (apiece), smoked Balkan Sobranies, ate hardboiled eggs and pickles, and listened repeatedly to one particular atonal concerto for bassoon and ocarina. Their names were Myron Holiday, Russell Serene, Ross Burmahog, Stanley Tartwig, Jessel Peacock, and Wormies Bindabu."

All that was for some throwaway character who features in one paragraph. You have to be shown how he's joined to the rest of the city in some freaking weird and ridiculous way. I mean, is it meant to be funny? It's not funny. Not to me. God, I'm glad to be done with this book.

And it hops around in time, purporting to end up at the year 2000, but no one actually seems modern at all. I don't know what to tell you. I hated this book, but I guess it is some folks' big long cup of tea. I rarely give up on a book, especially fiction, so I was determined to finish it but it was a chore.

Flowery and ultimately meaningless.

There are numerous beautifully descriptive passages, mainly about the wind and snow. The most outstanding ones are those related to the magical horse Althansor. Regrettably, there are far too many of them, and I found my spirit starting to wane whenever a new chapter commenced with yet another exquisitely descriptive passage about the wind and snow.

I never managed to uncover a coherent plot. The human characters appeared and disappeared without having any real influence, neither on the story nor on me. Although the magical horse is perhaps characterized better than most. Peter Lake does贯穿 the entire novel, but he spends the final part in a state of confusion that I could identify with. The sporadic moments of drama all resolved effortlessly and without any major surprises.

I was irked by the wholesale dismissal of non-central characters, yet it seemed I was supposed to believe in the city (I'm hesitant to call it New York as it's clearly not a real place) and care about what happened to it.

In the end, I felt no connection to the city, and it seemed that, ultimately, the author didn't either.

I don't know what to think or say about this book.

I started it over three times and every time I lost interest, lost track of what was going on. The story seemed to be a jumble of words and events that didn't quite connect. I finally decided life was too short to waste on a book that didn't engage me.

Winter's Tale had a bunch of sing song prose that really could have used a good culling. It was overly flowery and didn't add much to the story. In fact, it often got in the way of my understanding. Ultimately, I didn't know who anyone was and I didn't care, because all the pretty prose was just a distraction.

Just say what you mean, dammit! Sure, make it a little pretty, but everything in moderation! I want a story that is clear and engaging, not one that is bogged down by unnecessary prose.

There was a white horse and an Irish dude named Peter (I think), organized crime, a bad guy named Pearl who wanted a golden room. That's all I know. I'm sure there was more to the story, but I just couldn't get past the prose to find out. Maybe someone else will have better luck with this book, but it just wasn't for me.

One of a Kind

In Chicago, with the recent blizzard and the seemingly endless winter, it felt just right to take this novel off the shelf and read it again for the fourth time. I can't say the same for many other books. It's not that I forget the story, but rather that this book is so rich in descriptions, characters, vignettes, and sub-plots that I always seem to discover something new each time I read it.

Describing Winter's Tale is extremely challenging. The novel combines elements of fantasy, Dickens, Shakespeare, historical fiction, and romance. It's a tale of good versus evil, a quest, redemption, and even resurrection. The narrative timeline jumps from the late 19th/early 20th century to the year 2000, with Manhattan at its center.

If "labeling" this novel is hard, outlining the plot in a limited space is almost impossible. The central character, Peter Lake, is an orphan, a master metal worker, a burglar, and a time traveler. He is chased through New York and time by the despicable Pearly Soames and his gang of Short Tails. Along the way, he meets a magnificent and magical white horse that helps him escape from these annoying pursuers.

Lake also falls in love with Beverly Penn, a member of one of New York's wealthiest families, the Penns, who run a publishing empire. There is a cast of characters with their own stories who work for the Penns, all of them fascinating.

If this sounds confusing or stretches credibility, and I'm only scratching the surface of the tale here, that's my fault. Because this is a captivating, one-of-a-kind story. Winter's Tale is not a book you can devour in one night. In fact, you may not finish it in a week of nights. But devour it you will, because this book draws you in from the start and never lets go. This novel is like nothing else I've read over the years and is highly recommended.

I don't know what to write about this book... It is cataloged as an American masterpiece (New York is described in the tiniest detail, telling the story of a great city, that of all possibilities), a praise to love that is capable of overcoming any barrier, yet it didn't catch me.

Perhaps the overly detailed descriptions bored me, perhaps I didn't have the necessary state of mind for this kind of story, or simply I didn't like it. I have no reason to make excuses for myself. I read it with difficulty and I don't have many words of praise for it. I firmly believe that about 500 pages are useless and that the story would have been nice without them... A friend told me that this is the kind of book that you either love or you throw at the wall (I am part of the second category) and that it is not an easy read... it wasn't... I admit. I didn't connect with it at all. Many things didn't fit together, they annoyed me... Ugh, it's hard for me to concentrate and now to write about it.

I discovered beautiful descriptions, fantastic characters, journeys in space and time... all of these having as a basis this pure, intense and magical love, which can even face death... but still it wasn't enough.

The love of the two is magical, truly ripped out of a fairy tale, a bit strange how it ended, but I don't judge... and too short... if you ask me.

The action takes place on two levels, in a magical New York of the Belle Epoque period and in our times. Although the characters are different and abundant, they are somewhat lacking in identity. Besides Peter and Beverly, the rest are in the shadows and don't add any extra color to the story, because they are strangely very similar to each other. I think the author focused too much on descriptions... which are... let me tell you: read, then close your eyes, and then visualize what you have read in the tiniest detail, because the landscapes, the natural phenomena etc. are perfectly created. (I don't know if I have read any other book lately that is so good in the chapter of descriptions, but again it wasn't enough).

At one point I was really confused because I no longer understood what is the connection between Peter, Beverly, the flying horse, the little girl with cancer, this endless fight between good and evil, but in the end the author untangles all those tangled threads, bringing the truth before our eyes.

In conclusion, I recommend the book only to those who love fairy tales, stories, long and detailed descriptions and to all those who want a magical journey, in a world where love overcomes everything. A bit utopian, but na... it's a fairy tale. :) Not for the most pragmatic and those more anchored in reality. It will drive you crazy.

2 stars, but not because it is such a horrible read, but because it didn't convince me. I didn't like it.

1. Five steles, because 600 out of the 800 pages are nothing but a waste of time and useless consumption of paper.

This statement highlights the significance of the five steles in contrast to the seemingly unproductive 600 pages. It implies that the steles hold more value or importance.

Perhaps the steles contain crucial information, historical records, or artistic masterpieces that are worth preserving and studying.

On the other hand, the 600 pages may be filled with redundant or uninteresting content that does not contribute to the overall understanding or progress.

This comparison serves as a reminder to focus on the essential and valuable aspects rather than getting lost in the excess.

It also emphasizes the need to be more discerning and efficient in our use of resources, whether it is time or paper.

By recognizing the true worth of different things, we can make better decisions and allocate our resources more effectively.

Wow. This is truly the worst magical realism book I've ever had the misfortune to read, and that's saying something considering I've read Salman Rushdie's Fury. The bottom line is that I can tolerate a certain amount of crap, but deadly dull crap is another story entirely. Everything in this book seems to happen without much purpose, even within the context of its own universe.

Why on earth would a super idealistic newspaper run a column titled The Mayor Looks Like an Egg. Period.? And why is the one truly horrid person in the story a complete buffoon? What was the point of the horse other than being a convenient deus ex machina? Why did the little girl die in the first place, and what was the significance of her coming back to life? Why did we only hear about Beverly's so-called prophecy of the little girl in the last 50 pages of the book? And worst of all, why is there that complete copout of for what happened to Peter Lake, it must be left to the reader's imagination? My imagination is quite vivid, and I could have easily imagined what happened to him about 500 pages before it was even suggested. This has been such a pointless waste of time.

***

I'm going to make an exception and write a review even before I'm done with this book, because I'm not at all sure I'll remember or even care to when I finally finish it. I can't recall exactly where I read it, but I swear I did that Mark Helprin did not consider Winter's Tale to be magical realism. In fact, I remember him being rather snooty about the kind of fiction that emerged from South America. And in a way, he's right. No matter what other criticisms one can level at One Hundred Years of Solitude, one thing you cannot say is that it's incoherent. The magic in that book works in harmony with the story, rather than sticking out like a sore thumb as it does here.

What exactly is Helprin trying to convey with this story? If winter were a tree, this would be a Terrence Malick movie. The characters are not even half as well-described as the beloved snow drifts and some strange cloud wall that may or may not surround New York. In fact, the characters could be replaced by pieces of cardboard and we would hardly notice the difference. These are not real people; they are just types. How many people would fall in love at first sight? How many times does Helprin have to insist that this is "true love"? And how can such purity possibly sustain itself? It's not the only overly pure concept either. I mean, how many times are we going to be bombarded with the idea that there is nothing more beautiful than the sight of a just city rejoicing in justice alone? Alright, we get it. There's no need to have every character repeat this tiresome refrain. Does he really think that if it's repeated often enough, it will somehow become true?

The women in this book deserve their own paragraph. Beverly, the first one, is an impossible character. She's so beautiful that she seems almost too good to be true, yet there she is. Animals in the stars talk to her as she lies in her specially made rooftop room, and she writes down equations that explain the workings of the universe. She has the power to make things happen. The most villainous of people turns into a puddle of mush (well, he sleeps) when she's around. And if that's not enough, she's dying. Of consumption, the one disease that somehow enhances beauty rather than destroys it. She remains unspoiled even after hopping into bed with a thief and a stranger, for no other reason than she's horny. But of course, this is all supposed to be true love.

Then there's Virginia. Not quite as impossibly beautiful as Beverly (seriously, there's no comparison), but still perfect in her own way. She talks like a lexicologist at a seminar, which I found mind-numbingly dull, but what do I know? The people she talks to are so dazzled by her sparkling conversation that they end up giving her a job as a columnist starting yesterday, no less. But being oh so very humble, she decides to start from the bottom. She has this lovely attribute of being able to dream the future. So far, she's seen nothing but good things for herself. Also, she has some random stranger fall in love with her instantly (see the theme?). And conveniently for her, he's young, handsome, and believes her crazy fantasies. True love again.

Edit after page 373. More random people falling in love, this time through a wall. And of course, when they finally meet, the girl is beautiful and the man is not bad looking at all. I wonder what the purpose is of introducing so many characters, other than to make them fall in love with each other? There's more about the horse, which to me serves no real purpose other than rescuing Peter Lake whenever Pearly Soames corners him. Why is it even there? And I find it quite hilarious that there's a character in the book who talks as if she is raping the dictionary. Why, that's exactly how I feel about Helprin when I'm faced with an endless description of snow.