Near the beginning of her third book,
Jacob’s Folly, Rebecca Miller writes: “Reliable, true Leslie Senzatimore stood on his square of new-mown grass at the cusp of dawn, planted his feet far apart, leaned back, and aimed a glistening arc of piss straight over the fading moon. The heavenly body glowed, lassoed by his streaming ribbon, and maybe even claimed by a man who, at forty-four, had every reason to be content.”
This striking scene hurtles into motion Miller’s ambitious, absorbing novel, which moves between contemporary Long Island and 18th-century Paris and examines identity and its myriad facets ...
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