As I’ve written elsewhere recently, my tolerance for difficult prose is at a bit of a low right now. But, if its coupled with a fascinating look at the politics of renaissance Italy, the life of the mysterious trouble painter Caravaggio, and the clever use of tennis as a narrative device, I’m willing to make an exception.
This is an odd book, moving back and forth through time, from the modern writer struggling to write a novel, to Caravaggio playing tennis.* Its literary, without being overly serious. Enrique knows the conceits of this book are a bit absurd. He dives deep into that and produces a book that a bit challenging, but also a joy to read. Glad I happened across this one, it was worth the time.
*why must so much of modern literature involve an author. Enough, already.