The Cantor's Daughter is Scott Nadelson's excellent second collection of stories (including one novella). I was mostly flummoxed by the Publisher's Weekly review, which was intelligent in its own way and demonstrated acquaintance with the stories, but in the end offered insights more pertinent to Pippi Longstocking or Men in Latvian Maid Outfits Wrestling Among the Timbers. Trust me on this, some people write reviews with rubber gloves pulled down over their faces. Enamored as I was of Saving Stanley, Mr. Nadelson's first collection, Cantor's Daughter is better, smarter, sweeter, deeper, more variegated. The sentences do more work, the prose is more visual and alluring, and yes, despite the inevitable Nadelson themes--the unmitigable distance between souls, the futility of romantic endurance, the corrupt seed in every human bond--there are even places to laugh. "Half a Day in Halifax" is the story of two lonely people who meet on a cruise ship and find something before it fades. "The Cantor's Daughter" is the story of a rebellious girl on a flopped prom night who comes home to the patient and loving wisdom of a good father. "Rehearsal" is a neat reversal on the prodigal son story. "Return," the story of two doomed lovers who go to Scotland, is perhaps his most vulnerable piece yet. I wasn't thrilled with the very short birthday cake piece, "Lego". However, the novella "The Headhunter," another dark study of filial jealous and the fallibility of trust and friendship, is a knockout. Feeling like a Chekhovian feminist dada piece (just joking, Scott) Headhunter fascinated me with its near gothic and absolutely believable descriptions of the innerworkings of the people enthralled in the chemical and commercial ends of the pharmaceutical business. Headhunter begs to be compared to perhaps Poe or Malamud, but in the end it stands alone, easily the best thing I've read this year. Nadelson is still a very young writer, barely thirty, yet his ability to create immediately palpable characters and events has always been top notch, and only continues to improve. The dialogue is superb, never outperforming what should proceed from the mouth of a character. True, the subject matter's often bleak, but comedies are only tragedies cut short, and writers are gods with lethal obligations. Take comfort that your God Nadelson cares, that he's not going to cheat his creations, that he's going to give every one of them the full spectrum of emotion, the full gamut of possibilities, a chance at the buffet table and a beautiful Scottish sunset before he leaves them dashed upon the desert shore.