In my personal little hall of writer fame, Robinson joins Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Kennedy, and Rushdie. The prose slips under your skin, leaving you impatient with lesser writers. Robinson is brilliant, but does not choose brilliance over wholeness: her work is not merely skillful, self-absorbed virtuosity. Rather, she investigates this world (this small town, this lakeside, this shabby house) with a tender but unhesitating eye. A truly beautiful book. (her book of essays, "The Death of Adam," is also wonderful)