A teacher visiting his dying brother in the Bronx. A mysterious journal from the nineteenth century stolen from a boarding house. A therapy clown and an assassin, both presumed dead, but perhaps not dead at all.
A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. I wouldn’t have it any other way ... I’m reading not for the tightness of the structure but for the acuity of the reverie. Moore is after something more mysterious than naturalism. She is operating in the territory of myth ... Moore’s fever dream of a world feel[s] so relentlessly real.
Dense and heavy ... The plot is kind of beside the point ... maybe it’s that grief, which seeps from Moore’s pages here like wet ink, is always nonsensical to those outside it. Maybe I Am Homeless is not meant to be read as a novel, but as a death dream.
