I liked this book almost as much as I like how Steve Martin disappears into it - I guess it’d probably tough for most successful comedians to get away with writing a serious (and I mean a nearly 100% jokeless) piece of fiction about art and the people who
appreciate it sell it and buy it. But why can’t somebody hilarious write something, other than a memoir, that isn’t remotely hilarious?
It reminded me a little, tonally, of the movie, The Spanish Prisoner. There was a tense sorta pulse on every page that made me feel like I was on a slow-moving carnival ride, blindfolded, listening to the creaking of the car and sensing the slight shifts in altitude, with no idea when I was gonna drop a gazillion feet.
And also, there are pictures.