This is my first novel, republished by Xlibris:  here.

“”As fine a portrait of late adolescence as any in recent years,” said Richard Locke in The New York Times. “Like a solid, modest but finely structured piece of chamber music… an unmodish, underplayed novel that makes you sit up and smile.”

From the opening page:

Jeff Kimberk and I were both born on Groundhog Day, 1945, and that coincidence was what first made us take note of each other seventeen and a half years later. It was the day of my arrival at Harvard College.  Some creep was stopping everyone in the stairwell of the dormitory and asking him when he was born as a test of some esoteric theory of probability.  Jeff was bounding down two steps at a time as I was struggling up with my steamer trunk, which I rested on the banister when the creep asked his question.  “February second,” Jeff and I replied in the same breath and then looked at each other in amazement.  Not that we became friends at that point.  My impression then and throughout freshman year was that he did not wish to be publicly associated with me on any grounds in anyone’s mind.  Such paranoid impressions tormented me considerably in those days…


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