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Deborah Eisenberg is nearly unmatched in her mastery of the short-story form. Now, in her newest collection, she demonstrates once again her virtuosic abilities in precisely distilled, perfectly shaped studies of human connection and disconnection. From a group of friends whose luck in acquiring a luxurious Manhattan sublet turns to disaster as their balcony becomes a front-row seat to the catastrophe of 9/11; to the Roman holiday of a schoolteacher running away from the news of her ex-husband's life-threatening illness, and her unlikely guide, a titled art scout in desperate revolt against his circumstances and aging; to the too painful love of a brother for his schizophrenic sister, whose tragic life embitters him to the very idea of family, Eisenberg evokes "intense, abundant human lives" in which "everything that happens is out there waiting for you to come to it."… (more)
User reviews
So maybe the fact that I was so unaffected by her stories has more to do with a certain weariness towards that particular date as some sort of crucial indicator that the world has forever changed, rather than just another milepost in the ever-evolving parade of inanity that comprises human existence.
For the most part, I couldn't manage to gear myself up enough to care or be interested by her plots or characters. It's almost as though she only cared about telling a story as a means of talking about her feelings on the transition from a pre-9/11 to a post-9/11 world.
I tried to muddle through this collection, but it was difficult. I had no idea what the author was talking about half the time. I couldn't figure out if she just had ADHD or I had an attention deficit disorder of my own. Take, for example, the following passage from the title story
"And
Granted, you may not know who Russell, Madison, Amity, and Mr. Matsumoto are. You don't know the setting. You have no context. Neither did I. Every passage leading up to this was quite the same. Names, places, more names, and phrases that just seemed to run on and make no sense. If you read the passage above, understood it, and enjoyed it, then you should probably buy this book as quickly as possible and never read another of my reviews again. Please.
The only story that had any redeeming qualities was "Some Other, Better Otto." It wasn't the most compelling story, but it made sense. Otherwise, I really felt like I wasted my time on this one.
A review on the back claimed that Alice Munro and Deborah Eisenberg are the only contemporary writers, "incapable of writing a bad story." Makes one really wonder where they get their books.