Why is it that so many prominent reviewers are so utterly unable to distinguish the facile from the real, and endlessly mistake the decorative for the good? Prague is clever, arch, self-aware, eurudite, sometimes witty, and often well-written. It is also precious, mannered, false, cliched, and tedious. Phillips watches himself oh-so-knowingly transpose the lost generation into the modern world, winking all the way, and it's too clever by half. Good books actually step up to the plate, take real emotional risks, and don't apologize for it.