![]() Many readers will get caught up in the waywardness of this 300-page single-paragraph novel, following its numerous and surprising digressions wherever they may lead. ![]() Getting hammered, of course, is intoxicating before it is hollowing. As Wiese waxes lyrical about an old poet with scabs on his head in “a barn-sized pub in Diss town centre”, it is hard not to ask why the narrator doesn’t just make his excuses and shuffle away.Īt one point, we hear the tale of how Wiese’s “internal monologue became an expletive-filled rant, with his own name as its object, Solomon Wiese said, and the culmination of this expletive-filled rant was the repetition of his own name ad nauseum, the repeating of his name as if hammering it with a metal object, until the associations emptied out of it like waste water, Solomon Wiese said” – and by this stage of the book, you might know just how that hammering would feel. ![]()
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