Brainy novel that's all about the slipperiness of identity (Alzheimer's, closetedness, general fish-out-of-waterhood), self-identification vs attribution, the identity or otherwise of the author with his/her work, the double-edged nature of parody — how the parodist also wounds himself, and, can something be accidentally parodic? — but with its braininess (mostly) tethered to lived, emotional, experience. It ends with the author being subsumed into or consumed by his hideous, lurching, all-conquering creation, a tale as old as Frankenstein.

I was thinking, can a parody be any good if its parodic intent is universally missed? And not only that, but it's taken as a prime example of the thing it parodies? Is there a kind of circular continuum of parody, where a parody can be too good for its own good and "flip over" into or be consumed by its target? And, of more relevance now than when this was published, if you're rich and stupid enough (today's super-rich as parodied unsuccessfully in stuff like Triangle of Sadness), or just stupid enough (protagonist Monk's fellow prize judges) for parody to be beyond you, can you in fact be beyond parody? Doesn't parody depend on a shared understanding of art, and aren't we in danger of losing that?

As someone who dislikes the identification of author and work, of the author with the work, I sympathized with Monk Ellison. But you can't have it both ways. Write novels about fly fishing and carpentry if you like, indulge in poststructuralist tosspottery if you like, but don't expect to get rich doing so. Unhip, pretentious Monk is a realistically, endearingly awkward individual who feels guiltier than he ought to. Refreshing to read a satirical novel that is actually funny.