Young Lions is a lovely object and a confounding story: a book that doesn’t quite hang together but makes you wonder whether “hanging together” is a fair criterion to bring to bear. Its narrative is wispy, evanescent, but likely to inspire certain kinds of reader to a spirited exploration. I couldn’t escape the feeling that there were depths unplumbed or meanings unrealized (by me, anyway) in its vaguenesses; certainly there’s a challenge and a pleasure its exquisite gestural openness of line and form. I found it teasing and a pleasure to look at, but frustrating too.
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