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I’ve been ruminating on language, its fluidity and possibilities. How magnificent and frustrating is it that words can mean so many different things? 
 
Which brings me to this book: THE LONELY CITY: ADVENTURES IN THE ART OF BEING ALONE by Olivia Laing. I picked it up because of its title. It’s a fantastic title. 
 
I thought it was going to be a collection of essays about loneliness, primarily the author’s own, and the myriad ways that it transpires and affects our lives. I thought the focal point was going to be New York City as one of the most populous cities in the world and also one of the loneliest. I thought there was going to be adventure, nuance, well-crafted sentences and poignancy. 
 
What I did not expect was that the operative word in the title was “art.” 
 
This book is about lonely (white, male) artists who lived in NYC. (I didn’t finish the book, so it’s possible there’s diversity somewhere in it but I wouldn’t bet on it.)
 
While some of my expectations were sort of met—nuance, poignancy, a great deal of loneliness—I find myself disappointed. Is this my own fault? Entirely. But that title set up so much and my interpretation was all wrong. 
 
Does that make this a bad book? No, of course not. Does it make it not for me? Mostly yes. This might be callous but misunderstood male artists are not my thing. (And they’re nearly all male—the few women are defined by their relationships to said male artists.)
 
This is well-crafted—Laing weaves history, art, biography and social critique beautifully—and if you’re interested in the art world, particularly the latter half of the 20th century in the U.S., this might be for you.

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