If there was a sense of humor, or even hope in Russell Banks' life, it must have been beaten out of him a long time ago, if these tales are any indication. There is a perverse yearning glamor to be found in these stories about the hard, bitter truths the characters find, or don't, almost as if the hopelessness is something to be envied. Cheever, it can be said, is often times dour and meloncholic, but at least lightens the load with transcendant prose , and a dark wit. Banks lacks even that, and this succession of dark skies, long winters, and teeth-grinding pain bearing just wears out: the writing, dare we say, even veers towards the cliche.A better written and more incisively written set of stories are needed in place of this.