What makes his book completely mesmerizing—besides his lovely prose, that is—is how exquisitely it balances between the poles of revelation and disintegration.
A few crucial topics feel underexplored. At various points in this memoir the author is at work on poems, or a novel. Yet he never says if one reason he wanted that remote house was simply to clear space to write. (He supported himself on meager savings.) The literary motive, if there is one, is left to the side.
Axelrod is a master of metaphor, presenting familiar sights and sounds in unforgettable new ways. His writing is propulsive, unabashedly visionary, and strikingly fresh. This book will have you turning down pages, returning to sentences just to savor them, and reading passages aloud to anyone who will listen.
