God’s Hotel, by Victoria Sweet

Spring books

Laguna Honda sounds like a car, but it’s a hospital. It’s an alms­house in San Francisco, a place of refuge for several thousand people. It’s the last such institution in America: not an homage to high-tech mechanized medicine, like every other hospital in the country, but more of a garden in which waifs and strays who can’t go home because they have no home to go to, who can’t be cared for in the community because they have no community, can instead be regenerated. It’s a kind of New Orleans Superdome without the drama and urgency and horror but with the same slow-burning, mirror-to-the-nation pathos.

 

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