This book became part of my psyche one winter when I was living in a big old house with a buddy, studying Celtic Myths, writing poetry and partying like a nutter. Every morning I would wake up and dance out the door to something funky on my walkman, parse myths all day, drink till evening and then read this book. Mark Helprin creates a lovely, fluid world where history, fantasy and faith intertwine without boundary, and I longed for it when I was away at work and play. The story is a quest in which everyman, Peter Lake, makes his way in a hostile world, but this hardly matters in the tapestry of character and setting so well rendered as to be captivating. But it is the beauty that Helprin makes of winter that is the true genius of this book: baroque scenes of lavish winter games and culture that are utterly real, lush and alive with colour and activity.
I bought this remaindered in a cubby on Queen Street in the Beaches maybe twenty-five years ago. That store is probably a big chain now, that's the way of things, but the Beaches once had all these dark old stores that sold candy and books and records and baseball bats because the rent was cheap and nobody that was anybody would live there. I paid a quarter for this copy from the bin out front, the 'Quarter Bin' they called it. The owner said that bin kept the store afloat.
I don't know how many times I read this copy, but it encapsulates that magical time when the world was full of possibilities and everyone was a potential friend, when I was full of faith and filled my days with wonderous and beautiful stories. I'll keep this one.
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