Mouth to Mouth: ‘Gripping... Shades of Patricia Highsmith and Donna Tartt’ Vogue

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Ripley novel, as the tale-teller, a man once admired by our protagonist when they were both in collage, plays with the other's attraction as he unspools his tale, in which his old admirer is a alternately charmed and alarmed by a fantastic tale of love, fate and a meteoric rise--set in the world contemporary art. They have a drink and food in the first class lounge when Jeff tells his story of rescuing a man from drowning in the sea at Santa Monica. A fascinating contemporary twist on the classic ‘as told to’ novel, like Lord Jim and much of Somerset Maugham, which strands two old accquaintances in an airport VIP lounge==with a slight flavor of a Mr. Mouth to Mouth is a compulsively readable, deliciously disquieting little novel with a sting in its tail.

His work has appeared in The Paris Review, StoryQuarterly, and Best New American Voices, among other publications, and he is a contributing editor of A Public Space. I should also mention that this book utilizes one of my favorite plot devices: Cliffhanging chapters, done perfectly!His fiction and essays have appeared in The Paris Review, StoryQuarterly, Quarterly West, and Best New American Voices, among other publications. The characters and from some point on the plot are pretty predictable, and if you'd like to read about the art world, the gold standard is still The Map and the Territory. This book is an entertainment to be consumed quickly, a postprandial diversion after lunch, the power of the ride it takes us on to be savored only for a few moments before an announcement of evening cocktails. His work has appeared in The Paris Review, Story Quarterly, and Best New American Voices, among other publications, and he is a contributing editor of the literary magazine A Public Space as well as the Los Angeles Review of Books.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, in Melnitz Hall, his myth disintegrated further, the slow grind of familiarity rendering him into just another undergrad, a fellow non-film major as clueless as I was about the movies we were discussing. He rescues and resuscitates the unconscious man, then quietly leaves when the emergency services take over.But once I realized the narrator is irrelevant and the whole point of the story is Jeff’s weird experience, I settled into the story. His initial curiosity about the man he rescued — a Beverly Hills art dealer named Francis Arsenault — gives way to parasitic obsession. It knows what it wants to say, it's efficient, and if it maybe hits the nail on the head a bit more than is my personal preference, it was never really going for subtlety anyway. Our unnamed narrator is a vehicle for the fascinating story of Jeff Cook, an old acquaintance he meets in the airport while waiting for a flight. Born in Montreal and raised in Central and Southern California as well as Saudi Arabia, he now lives with his family in Los Angeles.

He saves the life of a man, almost by accident, then becomes obsessed with finding out more about the person he rescued. Upon discovering that it was the renowned millionaire art-dealer Francis Arsenault, Jeff begins to visit his gallery, eventually applying there for a job. As Francis takes Jeff under his wing, readers will be kept in suspense until the final pages about whether Jeff will ultimately embrace or reject his role as Francis’ savior. As he confides, ‘I wanted him to be good, though, I wanted to feel that I had done a good thing not only for him but for all the people he came in contact with. Coming out of surgery,” he said, “waking up in the recovery room, foggy as hell, I didn’t feel the sense of relief I had expected to feel—that only came later when I saw my family again.Wilson’s personal expertise reveals itself when Cook sets foot in the art gallery, conveying the feeling of artistic alienation to readers. From the moment one enters the airport, one is subject to a host of procedures and mechanisms designed to get one from point A to point B. He put one in front of me, announcing that he’d found a nonalcoholic brew, and that he wasn’t sure if I drank them, but he thought it might make things feel more ceremonial—that was the word he used—for us to catch up over a couple of beers, alcoholic or not, for old times’ sake.