Just over three hundred pages of a novelist realizing his story contained several stories, or that his several stories were all the same. Written as though "fragmented" and "kaleidoscopic" are the same thing, with characters who are all dragged through the events of their stories by the actions of others, with no climax and bloody little resolution. Shocking how the "brilliant" literary fiction of fifteen years ago completely fails to hold up--almost as though "literary" were just a lie, not even a genre like all the others.
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Time to Murder and Create by Lawrence Block
This was a kinda precious little find in the library--a Block novel from the mid-1970s. I've read a few of the later Scudder novels (t...
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This is a deeply romantic series of adventures in the pursuit of solving a mystery. There are references to Doyle, it's possible the aut...
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A beautiful novel about life as a mobster (in 1940s Tampa) and all the contradictions and complications of it. Lehane clearly has an ear f...
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Wrapped the last couple-hundred pages of this after gaming tonight. It started a little slowly, a little dryly, but it got moving the last...

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