I don’t read contemporary novels. The last book I finished was Beneath the Wheel by Herman Hesse, published in 1906: the story of a troubled adolescent in the Black Forest. But I was sent a copy of Crush , and found it smart and fun. Crush is what they call a “summer read,” I guess: a book to amuse you while you repose on a striped towel at the beach, or in your whitewashed Adirondack chair. The prose is confiding, witty, spry, disarming, trustworthy.

The nameless female narrator is married, lives in Brooklyn, has a teenage son. Her life is pleasant, but taxing. She’s a ghostwriter, as well as a nonfiction author. Her husband Paul is a sculptor and a musician, and doesn’t bring in much money.

It all begins innocently when Paul remarks, “I know you love kissing. And I know that’

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