I recently reread this book, one of my favorites at thirteen, and it's still tender, informative, sad, nostalgic, violent, grandiose, nerve-wracking, forgiving, and great. It's a coming-of-age story set in Depression-era New York, somewhat autobiographical, and vividly drawn and atmospheric. Some of the descriptions are heartbreaking. The enormously popular author Robbins, who died last year, was simultaneously rejected by book critics and loved by millions of readers -- for more than three decades -- much like Krantz, Susann, et.al. He was a master of his genre: low-to-middle-brow page-turners containing the tried-and-true best-seller ingredients of his time: love, lust, money, dangerous men, glamorous, sensual, and/or "fallen" women, "interesting"-- vividly exotic, dangerous, or historical -- settings, and memorable "characters"... Robbins reached much higher in this book, and it's more than just formula. The dialogue rings true, there's a satisfying use of interior monologue, and his eye for details is sharp. It's a story with a lot of heart, and remains well worth reading.