Written from the talented eye of a local beat reporter, this is an above-average, at times sharply-observed chronicle of the trials of a crushed city. The picture Norwood paints of Paterson is bleak, virtually from its colonial birth until the date of publication (mid-1970s), seemingly without a sliver of light or hope or even redeeming value beyond the unbreakable spirit of its citizens. Norwood is without illusions or any shred of idealism and so he does pull punches. Every leader is a cheat, a boob, a coward, or an outright criminal, and the population is powerless to break the cycle, as though the city itself is cursed. Ultimately, I think the material here is rich enough to have created a Caroian epic of urban life, but Norwood either lacked the talent or the ambition to do that (who could blame Norwood? After all, it took Caro nearly a decade and total insolvency to write on Robert Moses). What we're left with now is a perfectly adequate, narrow-windowed anatomy of debauched city life. That has plenty of value still.