Every once in a while, you read a book and it just kind of makes itself at home in your psyche. Just makes a place for itself, as if it had every right. Starts sleeping on the couch. The toothbrush appears in the medicine cabinet. Bizarre shampoos appear in the shower. Shoes by the door multiply. Unidentifiable things appear in the fridge and begin their long decline into disturbing and varied entities. All without permission.

Now, if you’ve read anything else on this website, you know I’m pretty opinionated. And frankly, I’m impressed — I finished this book three weeks ago and still don’t know what I think of it. Did I like it, or not? Did I think it was good, or not? Believe it or not, I still don’t know for sure.

One thing I will give it outright — Mr. Millhauser has the gift of creating exquisite details. Like those paintings or drawings so perfectly observed you are confused that the thing doesn’t actually exist in the real world.

Every once in a while, the style veered into territory that brought A Reader’s Manifesto to mind… it hovered dangerously over the abyss of sickeningly-Ray-Bradburyesque-Americana-boyhood-nostalgia… and then, there’s the ending… what to make of that?

There were beautiful flashes of insight, lines of unforgettable poetry; it was hypnotic and mesmerizing and existed in this preternatural world that nail after nail and board after board, built itself in unrelentingly, painstaking detail before your mind’s eye.

But… but… I can’t escape this nagging sensation that I was manipulated. Duped. That the very weight of detail is there to fool me into assuming substance. A long con of epic proportions. A forgery of a great novel.

Before anything else, you need to know the subtitle: “An Attack on the Growing Pretentiousness in American Literary Prose”.

This should be required reading everywhere. Especially those big-name writer’s workshops that churn out so many who will clutter up the bookshop shelves for years to come…

Now, it’s irrelevant whether you agree with each and every example. The desperately important thing is that he dares to critique these modern gods of “literary” fiction. What a glorious relief! Someone thinking critically about these things! And of course I don’t just mean fault finding, I mean analyzing the work — having a poke at it with a stick and seeing what it’s made of.

Yes! Let’s use those brains!

[I read this back in May, but was too busy to post then, so here’s a mini-review.]

I came to this one with a really bad attitude. I was convinced I wasn’t going to like it. The people who recommeded it to me or said they liked it were usually trendy, pretentious types who only read cool (i.e.: trendy & pretentious) books. Yeesh. No thanks!

Well, you can’t always judge a book by the people who like it.

I wasn’t very far into it before I realized it was just plain magnificent. A real masterpeice of beautifully chosen, perfectly described detail that bit by bit comes together to create not only an atmosphere of place, but an immersion into the worldview of the characters.

I was going to say more and give a few quotations, but I don’t want to ruin the pleasure of discovery. Dash out and find a copy now!

(P.S. Here’s the official Paul Bowles website.)

If you live in Paris, or are just visiting, you have to go to this bookstore and buy a book!

Berkeley Books of Paris
8, rue Casimir Delavigne
75006 Paris FRANCE
(Odéon métro stop)
Telephone / Fax : 01.46.34.85.73

The shop is only a few months old, but they have tons of wonderful books, a fantastic selection of authors and titles and really good prices. (If you’ve bought books in English in Paris, you know how insanely expensive they can be.)

I was just there again yesterday. “Perhaps I’ll buy a book” I told myself (feigning innocence) as I lunged in the door. An hour later, I emerged, stumbling under the weight of my bulging backpack. Ah, many happy hours of reading await…

Definitely my favorite bookstore in Paris!