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As one may gather from my previous post, I did not want to like The Commoner by John Burnham Schwartz.  Something about its quasi-real premise felt presumptuous, if not entirely disrespectful.   

And yet, I hate to admit it, but I enjoyed this book very much.  In fact, all weekend I've wanted to do little else other than bury myself in it.

The Commoner is ultimately a powerfully sad, immensely well done work of fiction, with a quality of prose that I cannot help but aspire to match one day.

That said, maybe I've been the presumptuous one all along...