
The epigraph by Borges tells a bit where the flavor of this novel is going. Sheppard is a hugely imaginative writer, deftly balancing humor, pathos and lyricism. Described as a “farce,” the book is at times mad-cap, while still keeping its core sincerity, which is a tough balance to muster. It’s the kind of genre-hopping novel that’s tough to pigeonhole, which is its key selling point, but maybe also tough to find an audience, which would be a real shame.
The novel, while getting into some far reaches of science, and even consciousness, also has a spirited satiric edge. It’s replete with tongue-in-cheek humor and societal observation; a book that would be well at home on a bookshelf alongside Kurt Vonnegut or Philip K. Dick. More people should write books like this.
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