A compelling intermingling of the story of a modern American painter, who badly needs psychiatric help, with a tragic crime in nineteenth century France. Be prepared to spend time on this big book with its myriad themes and voices. Will appeal to all those who love to read novels about art or grand love affairs.
He tapped his ash into the borrowed ashtray. 'The truth is that I don't know who she is. He blinked rapidly, 'Oh God,' he said, his voice full of despair. 'If I just knew who she was!'
This was so surprising, so unanswerable, so chilling and weird, that I said nothing for a few moments: I almost pretended he hadn't uttered that last line. I simply couldn't figure it out, didn't know how to respond. How could he paint someone and not know who she was?
