A portrait or a parable? | Review of Theo of Golden by Allen Levi

When a book arrives with so much praise, you pick it up expecting something unusual. Allen Levi’s Theo of Golden carries that pressure of being called a special book from the very first page.

The central idea is interesting. It is not exactly out of the box, but it draws you in. Theo, an old man from New York, arrives alone in Golden, a peaceful Southern town in America where no one knows him. At a café, he notices a wall filled with pencil portraits, drawn with great skill by a local artist. Those faces stay with him. What begins as curiosity turns into a personal mission: he buys the portraits one by one, tracks down the people in them, and returns each drawing.

Through this routine, he gradually enters the lives of Golden’s residents. Nothing dramatic happens. He sits across from them and listens. There is an old painter, a confused young student, a bookseller, a prosecutor and his wife, a dignified street musician, and a father troubled by his child’s suffering.

While he listens to their stories, Theo speaks little about himself. In a small town, such silence invites doubt. People wonder who he is, why he has come, and what he seeks. At first, there is hesitation. But his manner is plain. He asks for nothing. Slowly, he earns people’s trust.

Meanwhile, the city of Golden comes alive in the narrative. Its streets, buildings, roads and markets are described in visible detail, giving the setting a presence of its own.

Resolution sans friction

Despite the careful build-up, however, the promise the novel makes in the initial pages does not fully come through.

The narrative follows a predictable pattern: Theo selects a portrait, finds the person, listens, says a few thoughtful words, and moves on. The pace remains slow, shaped by memory and reflection.

This same calmness defines Theo himself. He remains gentle and composed throughout. At times, he feels less like a man of flesh and doubt and more like a figure meant to stand for something. Fiction needs imperfection. Here, those rough edges are rare.

A similar smoothness affects the supporting characters. They carry their own struggles, such as strained marriages and private grief, but their confessions come too easily. Strangers reveal everything in a single sitting. In life, disclosure comes in fragments. When resolution comes without friction, it feels arranged.

As the novel moves ahead, spiritual themes grow stronger: faith, forgiveness and what lies beyond this world. The tone inches closer to that of a parable. At times, it sounds didactic, like a self-help book.

Levi writes well for the most part. But at times, emotions are explained rather than allowed to surface on their own. The structure feels relaxed; a firmer edit might have strengthened the narrative.

In the end, this book will divide opinion. Some will value its faith in human decency. Others may want more conflict. It offers comfort, and whether that works depends on what you seek from fiction.

The reviewer is the author of Patna Blues and A Man from Motihari.