After many attempts, I am calling this one a DNF. While I was enjoying Giardina's unique literary voice, the plot and the characters made it feel like I was moving through thick mud. I kept wondering "Okay, but what's the point?" I was unable to connect with the story that was unfolding.

Unfortunately, I think this was a case of "I wanted this to be for me. I thought it would be for me. But it's not." I enjoy Giardina's voice and will look forward to future works of his.

This is a big book. Too big, arguably. And yet, for all its breadth and long list of themes, there’s something powerful and memorable about it, probably its voice and style. This is a writer with fine perception and technique. The tale is full of witty or incisive dialogue and fresh seeming one liners. It’s a pleasure to immerse oneself. However I’m not sure where it ends up. There’s a lot of grasping at meaning - about art, age, sexuality, relationships, family, history, money. All are tackled with intent. But what’s the takeaway? I’m not entirely sure. But I enjoyed the journey.

This story was well-written, with vivid descriptions that really did bring me there but I struggled to get pulled in.

In a thawing sway that feral beasts shimmy to avoid, the telltale signs of obsidian rove the New York City sky. Hardly capable of shedding light on such a bestial obsession, writers flounder the shores attempting to engage readers in the quaintly machoistic revival of the turbine, sucking in droves of people, spewing them into suburbia. Seldom is a person forgotten in the mass hysteria of the changing times, the roll of the calendar’s pages, the burst of a dawning Century. Yet, misplaced, they may still feel, when they regain consciousness in a landscape that has all but shed its tired façade.

When I came upon this book, I was curious about the author’s choice to use the cover art they had selected. As this might change between the writing of my review & the publication of the book, I will detail what my eyes did see.

Befallen in browns & gruesome deep teals, with splatters of beige & burgundy; the oil painting depicts a demoralizing figure whose gender is unknown & whose place in the world is all but a banal curiosity. Having finished the story itself I am left to believe that the cover art might indeed reflect one of the characters—Anna—whose final work as an artist was to paint herself in her old age.

Yet, as I regard this figure now, referencing groves of their sagging skin, I wonder if perhaps the author chose this piece because it is horrific. Rather than welcome readers with the cooling colours of a pallet that would grant them the leisure to judge & profit from the plot, Giardina presented eager eyes with a figure who was at the end of a long life; a life filled with troubling ravings, catastrophically dumb financial choices, & cruel life partners. Perhaps, Giardina wanted readers to be disgusted or perhaps he wanted readers to understand that this was not a story with a happy ending.

In essence, this is a story about the loss of understanding. The plot follows Henry & Miranda—father & daughter—as they grapple with the changes that besought them to grow, mature, reflect, & accept themselves & the life they were leading. The crux of the narrative reminds readers that although progress in equity & diversity has been made, few things remain as enticing as the delightful nostalgic hue that accompanies generations as they reflect on the past. In actions & intentions, Henry & Miranda are quaintly annoying & rather false prophets. Neither offers the reader much & were it not for the secondary characters, I might have thrown fuel into a fire of perturbed regret.

Dramatics aside, this is stylistically speaking, not a bad book. The author’s writing style is fluid & fashioned to represent characters who are intently disconnected from the world. This is odd because neither Henry nor Miranda has spent time isolated. Both lived in the center of New York City, in a neighbourhood that was flourishing with diverse cultures & people. Their quirks arise in that they, themselves, could not adapt to their country’s views on gentrification as their pursuits of glory & success evicted the very neighbours, they claimed so deeply to appreciate.

This particular point is one I would like to harp on, just a bit. As I reflect now, I wonder where everyone in this story who immigrated to the United States & the people whose families have long since existed on the Land, disappeared to. Where are the people whose home brews warm fragrances & steaming stews? In which building were the warm red blankets stored & down which street were the collective chanting hymns of solace?

I find it particularly odd to read stories that take place in New York City & in which the author has sturdy decided against writing the city as it appears, to everyone else. Where is everyone?

Certainly, there is a benefit to writing narratives about characters whose identity sees them sheltered from the things they pretend to care about or the whims of their passing social justice fancy. The irony of this cannot possibly be lost on the reader who understands that both in the current context & that of the 1970s dashingly revived in the character’s minds, showcases the cityscape of an Aryan sewerscape that was never the reality.

As I moved through this story, I wondered what the point was. Did the author understand that his characters held very specific experiences of a neighbourhood that was set to impossibly change as did the world? Were the characters intent on misunderstanding New York State? What makes this story work as it does is that neither Henry nor Miranda wants to understand their environment. The conflict lies within their desire to revive a specific aesthetic rather than welcome the truth.

Whereas readers might wander into this story hoping for a transparent approach to large-scale issues, Henry wanders to Haiti in the hopes of playing White Saviour with a twist—he knows he’s White & he knows he’s got the money to back his gallivanting pursuits. Will this give readers the pause they may need to stick with the story?

Henry’s time in Haiti is curious in that it is a total waste. He goes on to taunt the religious figures who may or may not have their community’s best interests in mind. He’s also there to partake in the repair of a building but instead of staying focused on prayer, God, & the necessity to engage in economic upheaval, Henry begins fantasizing about a child.

The tone of this review is not one of tender appreciation or crass disgust. Perhaps I should be more aggressive in my criticism of Henry; he’s an old loser who is so sick in the head to be a danger to those around him.

Readers will note Henry does not commit any illegal acts. This is a small mercy. It rings an odd tune to me that no one in Henry’s life would intervene when they came to terms with the fact that he was infatuated with Jean. Why didn’t his wife cause more of a scene? Why didn’t she ring him for what he was worth? Perhaps, their relationship has seen this kind of thing before & as they are two people in the last phase of their life, & they’re too tired to engage further.

This section felt particularly odd to me because it brought to light the real issue I have with this book which is that it reads as a sob story for wealthy sods. Miranda spent years salivating about a woman who painted others nude & brought her children to the doorstep of abusive men. Rather than engage in any reflective activities about the person she was writing about, Miranda roams the city streets wondering what Anna would think of the changes that the world has undergone. Lest the reader forget that Anna chose poverty rather than make a few sacrifices to feed the children she brought into the world.

I will admit that the deep-rooted brooding that took place throughout this book left me longing for something with more gumption. When the story opened to me & the introduction watched Miranda wander the streets past a bookstore, I was eager to read about a woman & a man who had callous folds to their person; people who were troubled, morose, despaired by the social networks of the world as it managed to become a revolutionized heritage site.

I did not go into this book wanting Miranda & Henry to be characters without their issues, this would have felt like a waste of my time. However, instead of being met with characters who had a head on their shoulders, I read about drudgery masquerading as deep thought-out ideologies about the, quote, good old days.

I would not want this review to make it seem like I utterly detested this book. There were certainly moments that shone a light through the murky goop. Lily sat to lunch with Miranda & reflected on the ways her life has worked & what makes a life worthy of thought, dedication, & poise. The reader will find the actual essence of the story here.

It was because this moment came so late in the game that I felt frustrated with the long-winded study of the painter who allowed her children to be abused & the narcoleptic sexual ravings of the narrators.

As Lily stated so well, there are people for whom rational thought dictates their next move & those for whom the driving force in all their actions is the tingling delight of flamboyant art; whatever that means. What the reader will need to decide is whether the trips to Haiti, the discussions about crime statistics of a neighbourhood, & the monotonous slurps of alcoholic beverages, are enough to keep their interest piqued.

Rather than be met with what I hoped to find in this book, which I will admit was not top of mind as I sat mesmerized by the cover art, was indeed quite contradictory to what the author wanted to write. I mistakenly kept reading, hoping that the writing quality would be enough. I should have cut my losses.

When it comes down to it, I cannot necessarily state what I disliked about this book that made me want to forget about it immediately & also purchase a copy for my shelves. There are positive attributes found in the visceral representation of privilege, narrow-mindedness, & taunt definitions of success that each character seeks & embodies.

There is also a special facet of this book that riddles it with intrigue, leaving the reader to wonder what other monstrously dull nostalgia Miranda might dredge up in an attempt to ignore the issues that plague the world. In that same breath, one may recognize the very real haunts of humanity that titter between sentences.

Miranda’s dedication to viewing the 1970s in New York City as the height of something revolutionary, meaningful, derelict, & formidable, makes her a person whose insights into the development of the Western world begets itself; ravings such as they are. Henry’s malaise of poverty, financial security, & somberly antiquated worldviews may remind readers of the talking points they see tweaked by statues perfecting the tormented fears of the breathing man.

Ultimately, this is not a book I would recommend though I will not fault anyone who tries. Artistically, the menagerie of a relationship that does not seek truth, but patterns of self-inflicted turmoil are righteous incision into the hands of readers who cannot begin to want to know better.

Forgiveness towards the characters for all the things they are not will be the flaming catharsis of the reader who mutes the news & shakes their head at yet another inquest of missing children, early forced child marriage, forest fires, poisoned oceans, & the very bricks that stabilize their pacing.

Thank you to NetGalley, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, & Anthony Giardina for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!