Three years ago McSweeney's published Stephen Dixon's acclaimed I., which The New Yorker called "a moving and oddly funny book." Now, the author revisits that novel's intimate territory, tightening his unflinching focus even as he widens his scope. Dixon is still a master stylist, and in End of I., his narrator's tense, breakneck reflections on relationships. How they grow, fade, and collapse are imbued with remarkable urgency and warmth. Like I., this is a darkly humorous examination of a man who is not only at risk, but more alive for it.