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Everything that is trite and heavy-handed in novels is present here: there's an aging patriarch, kleptomania, lots of long descriptions of the way twilight moves across a neighborhood, self-mutilation, child abuse, questions of immigrant identity, questions of gender identity, questions of sexual identity, a whiff of incest, death, AIDS, drug abuse, New York, the suburbs, tract housing, class conflict, shifting American demographics, paeans to urban space, roiling hatreds in families, love, generational traits, generational conflict, sentences describing irrelevant objects as if they're sentient -- really, horror upon horror.
And I loved every page of this book, deeply and truly.
Cunningham's deft touch, his empathy, his love of beauty, all of them are astounding. In life, I sometimes have quick moments of Rolland's "oceanic feeling" -- a sense that there is a unity and order to things, just beyond the grasp of my intellect but within the ken of my feelings.
Cunningham must walk around feeling like that all of the time, except his intellect is actually up to the task. Amazing.
Novels, even poor ones, have a hand in teaching me *how* to live. There is something deeply moving about reading something that reminds you of the *why.* Five stars!
And I loved every page of this book, deeply and truly.
Cunningham's deft touch, his empathy, his love of beauty, all of them are astounding. In life, I sometimes have quick moments of Rolland's "oceanic feeling" -- a sense that there is a unity and order to things, just beyond the grasp of my intellect but within the ken of my feelings.
Cunningham must walk around feeling like that all of the time, except his intellect is actually up to the task. Amazing.
Novels, even poor ones, have a hand in teaching me *how* to live. There is something deeply moving about reading something that reminds you of the *why.* Five stars!