Three years ago McSweeney's published Stephen Dixon's acclaimed I., "a
moving and oddly funny book" (The New Yorker). Now, the two-time National
Book Award nominee revisits that book's intimate territory, tightening his unflinching focus even as he widens the scope. Dixon is still a master stylist, and the narrator's tense, breakneck reflections on loss in all contexts are imbued with remarkable urgency and warmth.