This was such a pleasant surprise. I picked it up from a library shelf display on the basis of seeing Steven Martin's name and not being formerly aware he was a writer. This is an art history book, more than it is a story about any particular people. It's like The Great Gatsby, in that it's told from the perspective of a man kind of on the periphery of the action, observing the shining players in a game of glitzy strategy and subterfuge. It's also like The Great Gastby in that there aren't really any truly engaging or likeable characters - it's more like watching the rise and fall of a small social empire, but with one character serving as an anchor for the various moving parts. 

What's odd is I thought this book was fascinating, but not incredibly .... interesting? I don't really know how to describe it. The prose is amazing. The story is worthwhile. But it didn't create that sense of *caring* that I cherish so much about some of my favorite books. And yet, that's not an indictment. I really liked it a lot and am interested to read Martin's other works.