This story opens when Karl is an adolescent in Vienna between the wars. He is handsome, intelligent, popular and has every advantage. But all is not what it seems in a situation full of political tensions and erotic undercurrents. Entranced by his own reflection, he basks in the light and sees his life changing irrevocably.
The blurb at the back of the book somewhat astoundingly informs the reader that "Peter Sheldon's autobiographical novel tells his own story." And what a story it is! Crossing four continents, straddling seven tumultuous decades, presenting a varied cast of unusual characters from the babel-like mind of the quadrilingual Sheldon, this could have been a sweeping epic to rival the greatest.
This is however, as the blurb carries on informing us, told in a "highly idiosyncratic manner". This is where Sheldon's effort crumbles, in my view. Wielding the ellipsis and the nominal sentence to the point of obtuseness, Sheldon does not present us with a novel so much as with a collection of historical anecdotes, quick vignettes that are not fleshed out into a narrative coloured with a dramatic life. The characters are so numerous and badly introduced, cast off and summoned again so randomly, that only a few gain recognition in the reader's mind.
Sheldon was a professional writer, of guide books, and perhaps as a result he sticks too much to bare pithy facts for the fictional genre. Unpardonably, perhaps, he is aware of his idiosyncrasy; he alludes to it within the book and the preface also mentions his refusal of any editorial help. It is as if he made his work deliberately inaccessible to the reader. A grave fault for an author, in my view.
Despite all this, the story of Sheldon's life (since that's what this is) is indeed "fascinating" and I did felt compelled to read it to the bitter end (I choose the phrase advisedly), even if the thought of abandoning the book did cross my mind.