From Library Journal
Robison has constructed her third novel, the first in a decade, as a series of brief segments (527 in all), reflecting narrator Money Breton's ADD syndrome. Because she is undermedicated, Breton must struggle to maintain her concentration long enough to keep her Hollywood script-writing position and her sense of humor. By night, Breton is hammering nails or painting every object in her house; by day, she seeks to provide the right bits of advice and the right amount of motherly support to her methadone-addicted daughter and to her son, the victim of an unspeakable crime. With questionable assistance from several well-meaning friends, including a filthy-rich boyfriend with a limited vocabulary, Breton balances her difficulties long enough to see the proverbial thin ray of light at the end of the tunnel. Robison's characters are vivid, colorful, and likable, and their story is absorbing. Her humorous presentation does not cheapen the tragic content of her novel but realistically portrays one method of survival. Highly recommended for all public and academic fiction collections. Rebecca A. Stuhr, Grinnell Coll. Libs., IA
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.
--This text refers to the
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Money Breton is struggling to keep it together: she detests her job (which she is in danger of losing) as a Hollywood script doctor; her daughter is a recovering heroin addict; her son was the victim of a violent crime; her boyfriend isn't so sharp; and she watches a great deal of TV with a man who's almost—but not quite—a perfect companion. If all this sounds grim, it is, and yet there's grace and humor in the slippage between the ideal and the real: sure, we fall short, Robison seems to say, but more often than not a shrug and a quip save us from desperation. The author, who is known as a minimalist, here creates a narrative out of fragmented paragraphs, and the book works best when she strips Money's most explicit fears away. At these moments, a simple sentence fragment—"Canoe, moon, ukelele"—seems a close to perfect expression of lost beauty.
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The New Yorker