This book asks a lot of the reader and doesn't give enough back in return. Hard, inscrutable books can be rewarding, but this one's constant shifts in perspective and deliberately confusing lack of quotation marks (why is this particular technique so common as a way to signal a book is Literature?) never justified themselves to me.

The book's plot consists of a series of conversations between the narrator (who we learn little about) and an aging Russian pianist, who meditates on his life as an artist in the USSR. There were beautiful, satisfying passages in there, and moments of clarity or insight. Several times I'd hit one of those passages just as I was getting ready to give up, and it'd convince me to push on. But in the end they were too few and far between to feel like one was worth the labor I put into it. Had it been longer than 200 pages I probably would have cut my losses earlier.