Sussman’s writing is nearly always...florid, therapized and sentimental. It is radically un-Dylanesque ... His novel is bereft of drama and close observation. Almost everything in it is rounded off and softened, like pebbles on a shore. If not for the Dylan angle, we wouldn’t be talking about it at all ... There are several sections of this novel, told from June’s perspective, that are winning in their directness and simplicity ... Has a coddled quality; it’s as if Evan were one of those mail-order pears and grew up inside tissue-paper wrapping. The novel’s tone seeks to be childlike but is instead childish.
Sussman writes with lyrical passion, anger, and tenderness about the angst of creativity, the burden of fame, and, most extraordinarily and cathartically, a son’s evolving understanding of his mother’s love and sacrifice.
This will be required reading for Dylanologists eager to see yet another side of their idol, but the heart of the story is the ferocious bond between a mother and son.
