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320 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1982
I thought about Bobby Caldwell and Robbie. Thought that their disparate stories were coming to an end—that, like an author, I was adding my own life to theirs. And the story was love—nothing more. How it got lost behind that gateposts; how it got hidden in the mazy front yards of Eastlawn drive; how it boiled away in a high, handsome Mt. Adams penthouse, where no one had though to turn the fire off. That night, the world seemed full of love’s failures. Men and women driven by a relentless, inexplicable urge to destroy the grounds of their happiness—running from all charity and comfort, as if the charity itself was a burden and the comfort a baseless lie. And I counted myself among them. For a lot of reasons.See what I mean? The prose is accomplished, deeply-felt, compassionate. The Cincinnati references—to Eastlawn and Mt. Adams—are spot on. And that phrase “hidden in the mazy front yards” is nice. Still, the whole thing seems flowery, self-conscious: words like “inexplicable,” “grounds” (in the sense of basis), and that cutesy meta-metaphor: “like an author, I was adding my own life to theirs.”