Robin by Dave Itzkoff
This wasn’t the best book choice, but the damage is done. Robin , by Dave Itzkoff, isn’t a bad book, per se. The problem is inherent in the impossibility of this story offering redemption. There is nothing funny, or even really that fun, about a comedian who commits suicide. One moment in the book which sparked my delight was the description of an incident outlining the critical divide between the San Francisco and New York City approaches to life: During his first week in Manhattan, he was riding a public bus, when, a few rows ahead of him, he saw a man slump over onto the woman he was sitting next to. “Get off me!” she shouted as she changed seats. But the man was dead. The driver stopped the bus and told everyone to exit the vehicle. Robin, still the altruistic transplant from the West Coast, said he wanted to stay and help out, but the bus driver replied: “He’s dead , motherfucker, now get off! You can’t do shit for him, so take your raggedy California ass and get out of my bus!” ...