Jeffrey Eugenides grew up in a city that was dying.
By the time he was old enough to walk its streets, Detroit was smoke-stained, empty-windowed, and whispered about in the past tense.
And yet, that bleakness did not repel him.
It raised him.
For Eugenides, Detroit was not just home.
It was a myth.
It was a legend.
Some of the most celebrated literary fiction of the 21st century would go on to be written by him, and Detroit would haunt its pages like a perfume that cannot be placed, like a lover that cannot be forgotten:
Not at the forefront yet always pulsing just below the story.


