Owen Sheers' novel "I Saw a Man" is like the echo chamber for a most disturbing sounding quartet. It is part Cheever, part Chekhov, but it stands alone, like a willow tree in the literary landscape. I have seldom had such a close encounter with the terrifying normality of orphaned deceit.
Sheers' disturbing "chamber music" evokes the mortality of most things, without really delving into any of them. Death, betrayal, impendence, feel devoid of gravity. They drift, confiding to the air the mark of Cain. This novel, wherein the "bad" befalls rather than being reclaimed, is dangerous to handle but such a privilege to access.
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