On the one hand, some parts of this book are extremely funny, among the funniest pieces of writing I’ve come across in recent memory. On the other hand, this book did not manage to cohere itself in my impression of it.
The book is split into two intertwining halves. One half is a comedic romp across Europe, where our author protagonist gets invited on an all-expenses-paid book tour of the Old Continent, featuring a wacky cast of characters (some of which may be imaginary?). The other half involves a father grieving the loss of his daughter to suicide.
The tragic half failed to resonate. I think there’s a lack of character development which just makes each new chapter in that half fall flat. Each chapter fell flatter and flatter as it repeated the structure of a memory about when she was alive, combined with the prescience of her eventual death. You did learn a bit more about the protagonist through these flashbacks, but nothing was particularly striking, with the details feeling very much cliché.
The comedic half was much better, and certainly entertaining to read. The meta-fictional plot undermined it though, making it much harder to follow and get engaged. It would have been one thing to lean into that completely, but it seems like we are supposed to care and get engaged in our characters. It’s difficult to do that when the stakes of the plot seem virtual, with all of the rules made up. If there’s no predictable consequence of failure, it’s hard to be engaged with the impact of the actions the characters take.
The novel is short though, and I think it’s worth reading at least to get some of Mott’s prose, which is dense and brilliant.