WHY

“Why Does the Universe Exist?” couldhave usedmoremoments thatslyly
build to something like awe. It’s aperipateticbook, one that only
occasionally seems really soulful ormuchmore than the sum ofitsparts.
Watching Mr. Holt wrestle withideas can be like watching a Boy Scout tying
and then untyingcomplicated knots. I turned the pages withinterest but
not onrushing eagerness.Mr. Holt’s wit andintellect neverfailhim,
however. He’s goodcompany on the page,strewingoffbeatwords like a
latter-day William F. Buckley Jr. (“inspissate,” “noosphere,” “bosky”) or
dining like apresent-tense A. J. Liebling.Hisbook is packed withaccounts
of mealslike this one: “At the table Iordered monkfish and heritage pork
and heirloom beets, and I drank adeliciousbottle of alocallyproduced
Cabernet Franc.”He consumes splits of Champagne. Hesmokescigarettes and
lingers like Sartre in Paris’scafes. Why, hecomplains abouthisinterview
subjects, “dideveryone but me seem tofind caffeinated beveragesmore
conducive thanalcohol to pondering themystery of existence?” In Mr.
Holt’spersonal metaphysics, afree-range nightlydebauch is yet another
excellent stayagainstnothingness.He is enjoyinghimself onearth and is
in norush to naileverymystery to the wall. “There isnothing I dislike
more,” he says, “thanprematureintellectualclosure.”