David Leavitt is one of my favorite writes, and another one of his books shows up higher on the list. I haven't gotten around to reading The Indian Clerk yet, so this shorter work, one that has clever touches of metafiction, appears instead. I started reading Leavitt in The New Yorker and picked up a book of his short stories in the 1980s, when I read a lot more plays and biographies than literary fiction. His prose style is impeccable, and he's one of those late-boomer writers (born from 1958 to 1965) that I've followed since the beginning -- Jonathan Franzen, Doug Coupland, Jay McInerney, Michael Chabon and Jennifer Finney Boylan to name a few. Anyway, this one is a clever diversion, about the circumstances surrounding a strange family and the loss of a manuscript . I recall that this novel was one I asked the Washoe County Library to buy; the collections staff members were accommodating when I asked for stuff.
Monday, November 30, 2009
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