Phillips’s best work can be practically Shakespearean in the way he uses a kind of prose soliloquy to illuminate his characters’ lives. What ensues in this book, however, is harder to celebrate. There is range...but the book’s leaps in time and place are distracting, require a lot of summarized backfill, and the result can feel like a baggy Victorian novel compressed to 200 pages. There is a lack of emotional pressure behind the words ... He seems lost in the story he tells himself, and also lost in this story told about him.
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