Here’s an excerpt from Andrew Tonkovich‘s review:

Indeed, Across My Big Brass Bed is a novel posing, fully nude, as a remembrance of episodes past, episodes misunderstood but never forgotten: an elegant and seamless and endlessly self-interrogating and self-reinvigorating crazy-big 1960s and ’70s late-boomer story meets autobiography meets political wish-fulfillment meets love, sex, empathy, and despair story, with motorcycle racing, music, gemology, love, theater, anarchism, the defining philosophies of public intellectuals — Karl Popper, Kant, E. F. Schumacher, and Reich — the Vietnam War (and draft, of course!) and resistance to it, and always the amazing, long, textured, funny, startling Amdahl sentences, here more than 400 pages of them. A sane Holden Caulfield, Proustian rememberer, and kinetic fabulist, Amdahl’s child to adolescent to recollectingly middle-aged broken-down junkie-musician narrator (who plays, among other sad, beautiful instruments, the concertina-like bandoneon, of all things) writes the whole long book, we are meant to believe, in a single 24-hour period, sitting in a lonely garret in Barcelona, something totally believable for an Amdahl narrator.

Read the rest of the review HERE.

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