I’m beginning to learn that the books my husband really likes and really wants me to read are usually books I really dislike. Here’s another example. A screwed-up artist, wandering without purpose in New York City, falls for a heroin addict who takes what little money he has for drugs and then ODs. My husband likes the books about the helpless women and the men who fruitlessly try to to take care of them. This author makes some particularly egregious (to me) writing mistakes, and his detailed rendition of his narrator’s every move, from dim sum to selling books to painting pictures, gets a little tiring.