A flashlight, a frying pan, a library, a piece of marble -- you will encounter all these objects in the worlds P. K. Page invents for you in these pages. It's hard to imagine so many authorial impersonations in one book: a middle-aged gardener retreats from domestic chaos to the privacy of his rooftop shelter; a young man discovers his parents' library as solace for a broken heart; a child whose parents are pigeon breeders makes beautiful objects of feathers. All the stories have in common the impeccable verbal magic that is P. K. Page's unique poetic signature. And beneath is a profound meditation. What is fiction, what is fact? Is there anything we can call truth? And who is the tremulous "we"', desperately trying to fix a location in this multiple, endlessly metamorphic, lonely cosmos. With an understanding earned by a lifetime of attention, Page assures us that this cosmos is threaded with love, if we are brave enough to search for it.'
