This is not a biography, this is not a novel, this is not a book, this is a miracle.
"He was the best and the loudest and most loved jazzman of his time, but never professional in the brain. Unconcerned with the crack of the lip he threw out and held immense notes, could reach a force on the first note that attacked the ear. He was obsessed with the magic of air, those smells that turned neuter as they revolved in his lung then spat out in the chosen key. The way the side of his mouth would drag a net of air in and dress it in notes and make it last and last, yearning to love it up therein the sky like air transformed into cloud. He could see the air, could tell where it was freshest in a room by the colour."...Continua
A lovely, lyrical book. This is a bit more overblown than it ought to be, at times, but it also contains some of the most wonderful scenes I can think of in any books I've ever read. (The woman in red, for instance. I think that whole scene is remarkable.)...Continua