There's two reasons this book is not underrated. The first person narrator and protagonaist is a profoundly unlikeable, irrational, self-sabotaging emotional cripple. Now, I know that doesn't mean it couldn't be a good book, but the trouble is that the writing is just not good enough to get us on board with him. Compare Saul Karoo with Nabakov's Humbert Humbert and clearly Nabakov's character is much more morally repugnant. However, he still manages to charm and woo the reader far more than Saul Karoo ever does. That's because although there are passages of wit, the writing in this novel doesn't have the sizzle and relentless brilliance of Lolita. The descriptions meander, the action is less than crisp and the same point is laboured too often.

The second reason is that at some point the author loses faith in the power of his irony and drops it, so that the second half of the book becomes too earnest and suffers for it. It's a mistake that Julian Barnes or Martin Amis would never make.

This could be a very good three hundred page book, but it's too long and the author doesn't have the technical ability to realise his ideas. ( )

"he would have to live out his days with the knowledge that he had no future"

"his story line goes from the epic genre to the tragic and from the tragic to the tragicomic, until it finally settles down to farce. Whatever journey he had been on is over."

Astonishing, jarring, completely unfiltered writing. The unspoken thoughts spoken. The unbearable realizations realized. The impossible confessions confessed. An extraordinary odyssey that hurtles into the void. What is our pain when we understand that our dreams will never be realized? How acute is our suffering when we acknowledge that our time has run out? What do we do when we have days to live with no future to live them in?
A brilliant novel that will stay with you for an eternity.
( )

Un « écrivain » spécialisé dans la reprise de scénarios et d’adaptations pour le cinéma, père adoptif séparé de son épouse, gras et sévèrement névrosé, spectateur de sa vie, coincé dans une sorte de mise en abyme de lui-même, voguant dans une stase vaseuse…

L’histoire d’un menteur procrastinateur autocentré

Un livre brillant, une oeuvre autour d’un anti-héros coincé dans sa propre histoire comme une limace dans un verre de bière ( )

histoire adroite qui se lit comme un polar. Conseillé par François Busnel et offert à Depardieu au cours d’une émission. La fin est un peu décevante ( )

"Hilarious" in a cover blurb of a book would normally make me put the book back on the shelf. This book has such a blurb, but I guess I was drawn to the "A powerful and deeply disturbing portrait..." quote instead. Indeed, I was more often disturbed than provoked to laughter by this excellent work. For me it raised the topic in which I have an enduring interest: the father-child relationship. In particular, it addresses the question of redemption and forgiveness. I was disturbed by Tesich's somewhat pessimistic perspective on this. One aspect I especially liked in this book was the discussion of truth and lies, and how sometimes people lie and their conversation partner knows the speaker is lying, but nothing is said or acknowledged by either person, despite both people being aware of the lie. An open secret, as it were. There are some aspects of this story that did not appeal, namely: the idea that the narrator has a 'disease' which blocks his response to alcohol; the tendency for some people to be caricatures rather than people with real depth; and the descent into predictable farce at times. Not surprisingly, given Tesich's main role as a screenplay writer, the novel did appear more like a film or television script than a 'real' novel at times, but for me there was sufficient depth and verisimilitude to justify a 4-star rating. ( )