Another book that I’ve read as a modern-day
hermit with no internet and TV (and a really old phone) in Bolivia this
Christmas. I have already mentioned my weird love for American suburbia, and
for Jewish North American writers. To this, we should add that Seymour Levov
was the ultimate jock in high-school, something which I would have loved to be myself
(and probably could have been) if only Italian high-schools had any focus on
sports.
There is an annoying number of books about the
downfall of the American dream, about the secret lives of perfect American
families, and about the sadness of those who have always been portrayed as the
epitome of happiness (all things that very often come to light, incidentally,
during depressing high-school reunions). At the end of the day, this book is
just about that – but it’s so much better than all the countless similar
novels.
No comments:
Post a Comment