Spiraling in structure and dizzyingly varied in theme, the essays are peppered with reveries and fantasies, suggesting a kind of ramble through Koestenbaum’s consciousness. He muses about artists of all sorts—writers, painters, singers, composers, sculptors, photographers, and filmmakers—and his eye may be caught by Picasso or Giacometti, or his ear by the recordings of Vladimir Horowitz or the compositions of Iannis Xenakis.

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