"A small masterpiece" (National Post)-An utterly original first novel from a rising international star On a cold, rainy night, an aging bachelor named George Ticknor prepares to visit his childhood friend Prescott, now one of the leading intellectual lights of their generation. Reviewing a life of petty humiliations, and his friend's brilliant career, Ticknor sets out for the dinner party-a party at which he'd just as soon never arrive. Distantly inspired by the real-life friendship between the great historian William Hickling Prescott and his biographer, Ticknor is a witty, fantastical study in resentment. It recalls such modern masterpieces of obsession as Thomas Bernhard's The Loser and Nicholson Baker's The Mezzanine and announces the arrival of a charming and original novelist, one whose stories have already earned her a passionate international following. "A perceptive act of ventriloquism, [Ticknor] rewards thought and rereading, and offers a finely cadenced voice, intelligence and . . . moody beauty." -Catherine Bush, The Globe and Mail "Confoundedly strange [and] fascinating." -Nicholas Dinka, Quill & Quire
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‰ЫПI knew I was not as important as Claire, so returning after the funeral I just stood around, wanting to let him know I was there ‰ЫУ standing there with everyone else rushing about. I am not good at those sorts of arrangements, pouring drinks or holding out a hand to a woman to help her from her chair; even sitting in the corner of the parlour with the men, smoking and talking in appropriate ways. I had nothing to say in the appropriate ways. I could not help out because I no longer knew the house, not as some of the others did, or what was needed, or what they might have wanted from me. Several times, though perhaps as few as one or two, he did give me a direct, tired look, but I didn‰ЫЄt know what it meant, whether it was mostly incriminating or not. I cannot go to his house. I can tell he doesn‰ЫЄt see inside me or even care to anymore.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПExhausted and near tears, I went to the mirror. I often go to the mirror when crying, to see how I might look. I wonder whether I‰ЫЄd have any sympathy for a man such as myself. Sometimes I feel I would, and it makes me cry even harder; other times I do not and it fills me with despair ‰ЫУ well, then I weep more pitifully than before. In these ways I find I am able to enjoy myself. The pure times I spend alone are rare.‰Ыќ
