Fisher (Anasazi, p. 1388, etc.) admits to some fictionalizing of the details, but this brief memoir of a few adolescent, pre-WW II years in Brooklyn has the authenticity that comes from well-chosen details, lovingly and honestly observed. With no attempt to turn this into an autobiography, Fisher finds some metaphors for living in the ""immortal"" jetty from which, in his youth, he watched ships come and go from New York City's waters. From an old professor comes a geology lesson, from an artist a lesson in painterly verisimilitude, from a buff young man a lesson in false pride, and from a poor, delusioned soul, a lesson in--among other things--the abuse of religion. That the war is coming hangs over many paragraphs, that Fisher would become an artist and storyteller all but hidden. The volume, with so many speakers expounding on various topics, may be more suited to Fisher's admirers than to readers unfamiliar with his work; he sticks to a particular reference--the jetty and the people around it--and a particular time, and makes it utterly palpable.