I have spent the vast majority of my summers in a house on the same street as one of the significant locales in Colson Whitehead's latest novel, Sag Harbor. In fact, we played tag together as little kids and I'm sure he must have scooped me up dozens of ice cream cones from behind the counter during his summer gig at Big Olaf's in town. So I was more than a little curious to see what this semi-autobiographical novel was all about. And thankfully it does not disappoint. Because there is nothing worse than struggling through your friend's unreadable novel (or unbearable play or unlistenable concert) and then trying to figure out how to respond when he (or she) asks you how you liked it. We've all been there.

Whitehead (also author of The Intuitionist, John Henry Days and Apex Hides the Hurt, to name the major titles) is a beautiful writer, whose prose in this novel alternately takes your breath away or cracks you up. Which is particularly fitting for a boy-coming-of-age-in-the-80's story. His descriptions of the people and places that populated his adolescence are so true to the version of Sag Harbor that I remember as to almost confuse me into thinking that this story is the gospel truth, rather than a fictionalized version of one semi-imaginary kid's journey.