I had marked this novel in February to be read, never got around to it, and picked it up after it won the Pulitzer Prize last week. It is the kind of book that can be admired but never really loved, and its subject matter is awfully slight. "Cold porridge" passing as "hot stuff," to repurpose a Saul Bellow blurb, comes to mind. Still, although authors who wear their erudition loudly have never impressed me, Joshua Cohen may be the exception that proves the rule.
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