This book had a lot of promise, I thought. I generally enjoy reading novels with a "literary" theme. There were a few pretty interesting characters here - Schiller, the aging, failed writer who has dedicated his life to "art for art's sake"; the ambitious, somewhat ruthless young graduate student who has known only success in her short pampered life who, in a sense, "uses" Schiller; Schiller's daughter, Ariel, a dancer whose best years are behind her and who acutely feels her biological clock ticking; her found-again 40-ish boyfriend Casey ... All these people are at least mildly interesting, certainly. But the plot lumbers along at a nearly glacial pace with nothing much ever really happening. I get it that this is a book about coming to terms with what life has dealt you, as well as about ambition and relationships. In that respect, it would fit easily into the ubiquitous "chick-lit" category, even though its author is a man. Brian Morton teaches at Sarah Lawrence. Maybe that's where these feminized sensibilities come from; I don't really know. The thing is, the book is just plain slow, and in the end it just kind of leaves you dangling out there in the stars. I see it's been made into an indie film, which gave it a second chance of sorts. And I suspect it might be a better film than it was a book. Sorry, Brian. It's just a little too cheesy for my plate. Elizabeth Berg-ish, only not as engaging as her stuff. I guess what I'm struggling to say here is, well ... Nope. I barely managed to finish it. ( )

I never thought I would say this, but I actually liked the movie better than the book. The characters are excellent, but the writing is shallow and cliche, no better than any Danielle Steel-type mass market romance book. The movie expands upon the characters and omits the author's constant bombardment of cheesy lines, which is exactly what the book should have done. Strange. ( )

Beautifully written book - great character development. Aging writer, Schiller, meets young fan, Heather, who wants to write a book about him. In so doing, she becomes involved in his life and revisits the impact his work had on her now that she knows him and that she is older. Morton gives a great feel for the interior life of Schiller and Heather. Schiller's daugther, Ariel, is also beautifully drawn. All the characters struggle with getting to the next phase in their respective lives and Morton is adept at depicting the parellels in each of their lives. ( )

Fabulous little book with wonderful character development. Highly recommend it, especially to those who are involved in the writing and publishing professions. Every character, Schiller, Heather, Ariel.Casey and NYC were realistically portrayed and a pleasure to get to know. ( )

The protagonist is an aging writer who has written four largely forgotten books and is struggling to complete a last one before he dies. A brash young 24 year old takes an interest in his work and sexualizes that interest. It is interesting that so many of the books that have struck me powerfully in the last few years depict the interiors of very old men: Frantzen's The Connections, Gruen's Water for Elephants, and now this. In memory, I think that Frantzen did the best job, but I was very impressed by Morton's depiction of Schiller's near death out of body experience. The transcendence of that moment provided the perfect balance for all the earthy/bodily facets of the novel and its ultimate weighting in favor of ordinary, familial love. It was a tough book, in some ways, to read on my birthday, a year after losing my father. The descriptions of Schiller's struggles with and denials of his growing frailty, and Heather's reactions to his "old man" qualities are familiar and accurate. Morton bravely deals with the big questions: what is the value of art, of life, and how does anyone ever measure a human being's worth? He asks these using a tale that never overreaches and so achieves a modicum of greatness. Let's hope this book doesn't meet the fate of Schiller's books and and Morton's first novel and go out of print. ( )