It’s sad, it’s unbearably sad, how lacking Sloane Crosley’s first fiction attempt is. I can hardly believe the blurbs on the back, the praise from Michael Chabon “I took so much pleasure in every sentence of The Clasp, fell so completely under the spell of its narrative tone and became so caught up in the charmingly dented protagonists and their off-kilter caper that the book’s emotional power, building steadily and quietly, caught me off guard, and left me with a lump in my throat.” Well sorry to hear about your throat cancer, Chabon, but this was a terrible book. Thin plot twists you’re supposed to stomach, but that come racing back up your esophagus, rejected by any sane reader with half a brain. Victor, the unemployed schlub, is the vessel into which Felix’s mother Johanna pours all the details of her extensive jewelry collection on the morning after Felix’s wedding, and the night before she dies (how convenient!) and thus penniless Victor gathers his limited funds and flies to France to chase after the supposed necklace of the Guy de Maupassant story, miraculously crossing paths with Kezia (his unrequited college love) and Nathaniel (college pal). Crosley should stick to her lightly fictionalized real life essays or burn the next few fiction attempts and then publish again.