A questionable biographer of a questionable literary/cultural figure insinuates himself into a woman’s life and draws her into complicity with his intended deceits.
This is a nice little story that draws on the mystique of Greenwich Village in its prime, the suggestion of a roman à clef (“Emanuel Teller” and his “insight chamber” feels a little like William Burroughs and his orgone box), and a rather incompetent con man and his willing mark. It makes me think I’ll give the New Yorker a couple more weeks before I cancel the subscription – Cynthia Ozick, at least, delivers solid and delightful work.