Although its subject is physical passion, "Narrow Rooms" is strangely bodiless. There's almost no characterization, which makes it hard to remember who's supposed to be dominating and murdering whom—I tried to keep a running score, but I still don't get that bit about Gareth and Brian and the train. Clearly, James Purdy thinks his story is fraught with significance, but the four boys are so interchangeable that I found myself wondering as I read what all the fuss was about: Why didn't they just draw straws for one another's favors, or take turns?

Contributing to the general aura of implausibility and thinness is the complete absence of a sense of place. This is a real loss, because Mr. Purdy's last book, "In a Shallow Grave," rather beautifully evoked the seacoast of Virginia and its inhabitants. A touch of local color is provided by folksy old Doc Ulric (who, because he is given nothing to do, seems invented for that sole purpose), and the boys sometimes say "ain't" and "cain't," although a lot of the time they don't bother. For the most part, though, Mr. Purdy seems uninterested in grounding his fantasies in accurate, or even credible, detail….

"Narrow Rooms" is well below the level of Mr. Purdy's past work, which has its witty moments (parts of "I Am Elijah Thrush") and even, in a bizarre way, its tender ones (the first half of "In a Shallow Grave," before the blood starts flowing). The abundance of clichés here—whereby a stopped grandfather clock is "the very embodiment still of Father Time" and West Virginia is continually referred to as the "Mountain State"—is puzzling in a writer whose prose has always been, if anything, too rarefied. Maybe the lackluster writing is a sign that even Mr. Purdy found his rural foursome a wearisome crew. (p. 46)