I really struggled with this. A father is in an old age home, and his son comes to visit, and they start telling each other stories. It’s pretty unclear who is telling what story at any given time. There are parts where the story has momentum, then it switches gears and things get confusing again. There are moments of fantastic, self-aware writing:
What was the thing in your career that irked you the most?
Funny you should have me have you ask me that question.
Strange.
Son, it was being called a postmodernist. I don’t even know what the fuck that is! Some asshole tried to explain it to me once, said that my work was about itself and process and not about objective reality and life in the world.
What did you say to him?
After I told him to fuck himself and the horse he rode in on, I asked him what he thought objective reality was. Then I punched him.
But the book frustrated more frequently than it fascinated. Maybe when I’m feeling more academic or something I’ll pick it up again, but this was a swing and a miss for me.
It’s nice to know I’m not the only one: the critic at NPR says it better than I did.
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