This book reminds me of an old Jewish joke:

Question: Why does a Jew always answer a question with a question?

Answer: Why shouldn’t a Jew always answer a question with a question?

Why should a novelist write a novel about a novelist, even if the novelist is Henry James a/k/a The Master? Does this seem like intellectual incest? On the other hand, why shouldn’t a novelist write a novel about a novelist  especially when the novelist is  that cerebral expatriate and  man about town from a dysfunctional family, Henry James a/k/a The Master. This novel does a good job of creating a fiction consistent with the facts of Henry James’ life without becoming a biography. What amused me about the book and is amusing  me overall in this reencounter with Henry James is the emphasis on sex in Henry James’ novels and on Henry James’ thwarted homoerotic sexuality, Henry, you sexy dog!

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