Andrew Steeves

“This is a book you cannot read on a Kindle,” Stephen Marche says proudly. “It’s not possible to do. This is a physical book, and the experience of holding it in your hands is integral to its reality.” The thing that makes Marche’s third novel so resistant to digitization is its form. Between the covers is a poignant, fractured narrative of adultery and madness that is sometimes laid out in parallel columns like a script, sometimes in typographic patterns like concrete poetry, and sometimes like flowing waves set sideways.