The 351 Books of Irma Arcuri by David Bajo

First line: “Irma Arcuri bequeathed her book collection, all 351 hardcovers, to Philip Masryk.”

Few premises are as original as the one in THE 351 BOOKS OF IRMA ARCURI, the debut novel by David Bajo. In it, a twice-divorced, unemployed mathematician named Philip is willed the titular library of his former lover and the one he probably should have married, if only he had asked. But she’s not dead — she’s merely dropped out of life, and clues to her whereabouts are hidden within her volumes, which become the subject of much decoding. Unfortunately, the novel is more metaphorical than mystery. It’s one of those literary affairs that’s longer on dialogue than plot, where the characters say a lot, yet don’t say anything at all — in other words, a book that sips espressos with pinky extended on a sidewalk café, brooding. The first third is pretty decent and mildly engaging, but at some point, I just stopped caring, and the drama wears all too dreary — not to mention the missed opportunity with the mysterious messages. What he lacks in follow-through, Bajo makes up for in descriptions. Witness his near-pornographic explanation of why books aren’t just for reading: “They bind and revive friendships. Their spines cupped for coolness or warmth. Their covers lingered over. I still love to slip my fingers between cool pages, like finding the fresh creases of bedsheets with your bare legs. They are portable, the most efficient of vessels. You can carry an entire country or civilization in the crook of your wrist. Hold open a life or the expanse of a relationship with the gentle crimp of your thumb. They are incredibly light and manageable for what they contain, what they can induce.”

For: A unique late summer literary read.—Rod Lott

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