Parts of it were astounding and thought provoking, but as a whole too disjointed, too ambitious maybe. I can see what the attempt was, but it didn’t bring me along.

St. Augustine receives retribution. Set in the Babel of NYC, a yearning soon-to-be-ex priest (who could only be Episcopal) can disassociate from his belief but not his need for it. This self-referential novel may be too ambitious but definitely is looking at the stars. Ruminating on our cosmology, and whether that is just another story we tell ourselves, and our history (whose story is always changing) the characters attempt to find their belief structure as the 20C comes to a pre-Apocalyptic end. Resembling a sacred text, the novel includes stories, songs, historical references, traditions and questions without definitive answers: the reader, as with all humanity, is responsible for imposing meaning, for finding signs and wonders, ourselves.

Pros: some lyrical passages, great lines, an imaginative premise and a whirlwind tour of the 20C, does a good job of incorporating current cosmic knowledge as it reverberates against age old questions — if God did not exist would we have to invent him, how do we keep re-inventing a deity to better serve present needs, what is the true nature of good vs evil?

Cons: one suspects NYC is the center of the universe for Doctorow, there is no inclusion of an Islamic character (I don’t think it makes sense to talk about Christianity and Judaism without Islam, at least in a supporting role), and while the novel has its moments and can be deeply appreciated on an abstract, intellectual level, there ends up being no real resonance, no emotional connection. Disclosure: I am not Jewish, do not love NYC, and am not old enough to remember the 60s, all of which may help its enjoyment. In some ways it tries to be a contemporary version of Dostoevsky’s ‘Diary of a Writer’. There is such a thin line between a work being deeply personal and being self-indulgent, and I wouldn’t profess to know what that line is myself, but I was left thinking the book could have been better than it was: perhaps a wildly inspired author needs a wildly inspired editor.

Ultimately, the novel is a reflection of sacred text: the reader will take what resonates with them and leave the rest behind. ( )

I may not be the person this book was written for. I struggled with it, and by the end I could hardly wait to see the last page. Yet I sense an important message within.

A novelist writes what comes into his head, whether it is a recounting of a conversation or the beginnings of a story. Sometimes he writes as if he is another person, from that point of view.

Essentially, the story is about religion. About Christianity vs Judeism, to be simplistic. A main character in the story is a Catholic priest (I think Catholic...Christian in any case) who is constantly questioning his beliefs and the messages in the bible. He knows that the bible was written by men, and he questions their motives.

A strange theft takes place that seems to speak to this priest. Much of the book dwells, in one way or another, on the reason for the theft and what happened to the item.

The story, if you can call it that, is told in this disjointed way, with ruminations and backtracking and people out of nowhere (or so it seemed to me), and I just didn't feel like I could handle this technique. I got through it but I can't say I gave it my all. Might be better as a book to study in a group, bit by bit. ( )

If you’re after a pacy novel with a great storyline and memorable characters that zips you from A to B in a rush of finely written prose, you’ll need to get through this quick so that you can get yourself something that fits your bill. This novel isn’t it.

What it is though is a series of sketches that, together, give you an impression of contemporary New York and bits and pieces of WW2 Europe and what being Jewish means in both contexts. Bear in mind though that people who are Jewish absolutely love writing about being Jewish. People who live in New York also love writing about New York. Combine this and, well, you get writing that is entirely self-absorbed.

Was it worth it? I’m not really sure, and that shows that this novel is probably for people who consider themselves to have more literary intelligence than myself.

Either that or actually this is pretty terrible. Of course, that is a distinct possibility. If you want to judge a book by what you can take away from it, then this is going to make very little impact on your scale of judgment.

As for me, I took so little away from it that, when I came to write this review, I could remember absolutely nothing about it. Even the cover didn’t help me. I had to head to the web and get a summary and, while reading it, memories of the grind that it was to read came flooding back.

So, take all that for what it’s worth. After all, who am I? ( )

The best book I read in 2007, hands down. I enjoyed it so much and found it so inspiring that I scanned a page, printed it out, highlighted an important sentence, and mailed it to my beloved. It is now hanging on his wall. One of few books I wish had arms so that I could hug them. ( )