Over the summer, I committed a mild act of literary dishonesty. Claiming to have lost my reviewer’s copy of Jonathan Lethem’s Dissident Gardens, I asked his publicist at Doubleday to send a couple more galleys my way. In truth, my copy of Dissident Gardens was secure, lovingly battered and heavily annotated, but never far from my person. I wanted the additional copies so I could press them into the hands of close family and dear friends, telling them as I did so: “Here, read the year’s best novel.”
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