Lucy Sante, Robert A. Caro, Edwin G. Burrows and Mike Wallace. Michael Pye clearly wants to add his name to this illustrious pantheon of New York chroniclers, but it doesn't quite work. It doesn't quite work because Pye doesn't have any particular focus. It doesn't quite work because it's incongruous and annoying to read a decently written poetic passage about some slice of New York, only to then read a chapter with pedestrian information we already know about Donald Manes, Lady Astor, Robert Moses, et al. -- especially when just about every historian has done it better. I can't even begin to convey how frustrating this book was. Imagine going to see an attorney who is about to discuss your impending divorce and, before you can meet the attorney, there's some completely insane fire eater that you have to sit through just before that. Now I have nothing against fire eaters. I've not only been privileged to not only watch fire eaters perform, but I happen to be acquainted with one and we text every so often. But you went to the office to see the attorney. You're a wreck because your twelve-year marriage is over. And then a fucking fire eater shows up.
Do you get what I'm saying here?
By all rights, I should have loved this book. But I ended up becoming so deeply annoyed by it. Michael Pye's superficial research was awful at times. But the dude CAN write beautifully and even charmingly in other parts. (I particularly liked his passage about Frederick Law Olmstead.
I mean, New York City's history is so fucking fascinating that it is pretty much impossible to fuck it up. And yet Michael Pye does quite a number of times.
If I ever meet Michael Pye, I will issue him an edict never to set foot in my beloved metropolis again. How could you fuck NYC history up?
Having said that, I'm making this book sound far worse than it is. When it's good, it's good. When it's bad, it's very bad.