When I was young I was always able to tell when I was listening to Brahms: not only would it be all romantic and blustery to my young ears, but there would always be a point during the piece that I was convinced was the finale, where the music had reached a climax and was about to dive into a speedy, victorious coda and come to an end. If I was still listening to the same piece ten minutes later, I could be certain it was Brahms. Only later, probably only in my late twenties, did I finally come to be able to hear the depth of Brahms's symphonic music and really fall in love with the sound world of those long, meandering pieces (particularly the piano concerti). Although the music is no less long-winded to my ears, I no longer mind so much because I don't want the dream to stop.
I feel like Lucius Shepard works in a similar way. His stories are jammed full of words - wonderful, poetic words - and he sure as hell takes his time wrapping up a story, and I'm not so sure how I would have felt about that ten years ago. But now I can't get enough. Shepard is capable of getting so much of a character's interior life onto the page that aspects of the story that are conventionally important in sf & fantasy - the far-out ideas, the magic, the macguffin - seem of secondary importance, and, in the lesser stories here, can even be slight distractions.
In this sense Shepard reminds me of Graham Greene, particularly because they write a similar kind of protagnoist: reflective, disillusioned, deeply flawed, weakness for women and alcohol, wearing the scars of a hard life. Shepard also shares Greene's taste for exotic locales. Although I'm pretty sure Greene never set a story in a near future central American vietnamesqe guerilla perma-war (as in "Salvador" and the intensely cinematic "R&R"), or the near future southeast asia of the traveling circus in "Radiant Green Star," or the white trash southern Florida of "Hands Up! Who Wants To Die?", there is nonetheless a similar fascination for the down and out fringe elements and an ability to make a place seem remarkably familiar, like a place we remember growing up, despite its foreign trappings.
At over 600 pages this book was a monster to carry around on my daily trek through the city, but now I'm kind of sad it's over.