Organized around the idea that "you can't know what a magnetic field is like unless you're inside of it, " Ron Loewinsohn's first novel opens from the disturbing perspective of a burglar in the midst of a robbery and travels through the thoughts and experiences (both real and imaginary) of a group of characters whose lives are connected both coincidentally and intimately. All of the characters have a common desire to imagine and invent rather horrifying stories about the lives of people around them. As the novel develops, certain phrasings and images recur improbably, drawing the reader into a subtle linguistic game that calls into question the nature of authorship, the ways we inhabit and invade each other's lives, and the shape of fiction itself.
the college. The world then was being given him, in the creak of the branches as he walked past them, the soughing of the leaves, the crunch of the gravel under his Keds. He walked all the way to the college, realizing as he drew nearer that he actually was hearing angelic voices. It was the kids from the music camp. They were in the chapel practicing Fauré’s Requiem. He wanted to get closer, to hear it better, but they were so far away, the voices so faint, that every step he took on the gravel
into details. Just leave out the heavy breathing, O.K.?” “I was lying there looking up at the ceiling, and I saw these images on it, on the ceiling, like a groundhog walking across it, and—” “I keep telling you to lay off those psychedelics. Next thing you know people will come down here and find you standing around in your birthday suit making love to your Moog.” “I wish it were my Moog.” “Well, monogamy isn’t everything. So you found the kid’s poems. I knew he wrote poetry, but I never saw
courtroom, in full view of the world, contemptuously, barefacedly lying and calling him a liar, challenging him. This could not be happening. None of this was true. He still could not believe it when he heard the announcement that there was not sufficient evidence to indict the defendant. As Blaquere came up the aisle from the stand, he was joined by two men in suits. Together they seemed to clog the space of the aisle. The boy’s father looked into the driver’s eyes, who looked back at him with
plant that looks like a cross between a cabbage and a philodendron. Then when you start down into the canyon itself you realize you’re in ski country without the snow. The trail goes right past the top tower of the chair lift. The trail down is grueling but it isn’t dangerous—except I guess you could break an ankle. And it would be a bitch carrying you out of there if you did. “The campsite itself is a dream: a white sand beach at the foot of a rock outcropping that goes up twenty feet or so.
In those first few months they had only two close calls, and since he and Jerome really were prepared they were able to get away clean both times. One of the rules was: “Drop the shit and run. No color TV is worth two years.” He was busy in a corner of the living room of this place, pulling the wires out of the tape deck, when he heard a car pull up outside. Jerome was actually at the front door, one hand on the knob and a box of silver under his arm. He put the box down abruptly on the floor and