<div>Jesús Castillo has created a sprawling contemporary epic that channels the mighty voices of the past (Virgil, Ezra Pound) into a plainspoken song of our times. In a deft, generous style, Castillo takes hold of the stuff of our everyday lives and converts it into modern manna. The book is lovingly relentless, quietly piercing. It is a terrifyingly recognizable call: it is filled with all of our voices, our panic, our modern love, our screens, our roommate’s cough, our melting icebergs, our planes and malls and frailties. Castillo writes,<br> <br>This is a test. A set of margins created <br>for company. For waiting in train stations<BR>or asking a stranger the time. You’re allowed<BR>to freak out this much only. There’s a green car<BR>parked outside, by the curb, near the bike racks.<br>An old man is asking people to put<BR>change in his plastic cup, and I remember<BR>my name contains both my father’s and<br>grandfather’s stories. The table I’m sitting at<br>is made of steel and marble. It’s cold and it’s<br>spring. In the song on the radio, a noise?</div>