A picaresque tale of an ingenu’s travails in mid-18th century Manhattan pays loving tribute to the literature of that era
There is a tricky and perhaps dubious kind of suspense in fiction that depends on withholding information from the reader even though it is known to the protagonist. It can be a simple device to keep the pages turning in an action thriller – the hero puts some objects in his car boot, but you’ll have to read the next chapter to find out how he plans to use them to defeat the bad guys. Or it can be the mystery behind a whole book, which may depict all sorts of thoughts in the central character’s consciousness – except his secret purpose, withheld until the end.
Related: Francis Spufford: ‘It’s taken me this long to be on reasonable terms with my own psyche’
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