From Publishers Weekly Dwight Wilmerding， the vacillating， down-market prepster protagonist of Kunkel's debut novel， gets fired from his low-level job at Pfizer and， with the lease running out on his hive-like Chambers Street boys-club apartment， lights out for Quito， Ecuador， where high school flame Natasha is holed up. Before this momentous undertaking， Dwight has been afflicted with chronic postcollegiate indecision， particularly in relationships: should he pursue a life with his quasi-girlfriend， Vaneetha? Start up again with Natasha? And what about his weird thing for his sister， Alice? As luck would have it， one of his roommates is a med student who turns Dwight on to Abulinix， an experimental new treatment for chronic indecision， which makes his South American jaunt very eventful indeed. A subtheme on the post-politicality of post-9/11 20-somethings gives the book some bite and surfaces most conspicuously in the form of Brigid， the Euroactivist who， along with the drug， brings Dwight clarity， and even hope. Annoying but accomplished， this entertaining book has screenplay written all over it， from the hot Dutch Natasha to the shambling cute Dwight—not to mention Harvard-educated， New York– literati Kunkel himself. (Sept. 6) Copyright © Reed Business Information， a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From The New Yorker Twenty years ago， Don DeLillo， in "White Noise，" created a character so beset by morbid anxiety that she begins taking pills that obliterate the fear of death. In our era of precision-targeted psychotropics， this scenario no longer shocks; it's drearily plausible. For similar reasons， the satirical springboard of Kunkel's first novel—a neurotically aimless New Yorker takes medication that he believes will instill in him the ability to make commitments—is rather creaky. Moreover， the Big Pharma plot only partially masks the fact that this is yet another novel in which a charming， Nick Hornby-style layabout is mechanically cajoled into semi-maturity. Kunkel's narrator has an appealingly rascally voice， and the author is expert at depicting highbrow buffoonery—at an all-night Ecstasy party， flesh and philosophy commingle to hilarious effect—but the book， for all its crisp prose， can't escape the staleness of its conceit. Copyright © 2005 The New Yorker See all Editorial Reviews