Review: Francine Prose on David Leavitt

How fortunate that fiction allows us to attend parties that in life—that is, in our old lives—we probably would have avoided. Proust serves up the gossipy details while sparing us the misery of actually being present at Madame Verdurin’s evenings. No sensible person would brave the thrillingly ghastly dinner in Thomas Bernhard’s Woodcutters, and we’re q…

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