I always had a soft spot for this novel. I returned to it after 30ish years away and remembered why. It's Vonnegut dialed down but perfectly on pitch. Our lovably embittered narrator is a disillusioned abstract expressionist with a complicated war history and a coterie of very human weirdos in his orbit. It's also a low-key mystery as he's working on a large scale final piece in the potato barn of his Long Island home. It's hidden away like a duchess--none puts by the curtain in the potato barn but he--and the novel lands exquisitely with its revelation. These many years later, I remembered the reveal and little else. I'm chuffed to find all the other details of the novel so bang on.