He seems to have lost all relish for language. He can’t sustain a time scheme or a conceit, forgets his place, contradicts himself and changes tense for no reason. Throughout this novel the author fails to do the basics. the dialogue is bad, the erotic writing is joyless, and the book is riddled with grammatical errors. What we do find out about Constance feels ham-fistedly contrived to provoke a younger (and better) generation of writers. The back and forth is overwhelmed by the fustian Ruggero, with featureless Constance increasingly crowded out. Unfortunately, White makes little attempt to differentiate the two voices, which speak in paragraphs as aimlessly picaresque as the novel itself. ends up like a circle jerk with one man in it. At once artless and affected, it rambles with mind-boggling carelessness between metafictional conceits and contradictory time-schemes before petering out altogether. White’s new novel is one of those outright catastrophes you can hardly believe made it off the editor’s desk.
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