Spurious may well be the only way left to write about the end times. Who better to truly accept the coming of the apocalypse than those who are acutely aware of their own stupidity and who are dumbfounded by their ultimate inability to even attempt thought? Endowed with a quasi-religious lucidity and insight into the wonders of their own - very poor - limitation, W. and Lars are left with no choice but to make pathetic attempt after pathetic attempt at some semblance of spirituality through drink and a strongly-held belief in conversation, which inevitably always spirals into an inane species of self-deprecation so full of resigned joy that it doesn't even have the power to be redemptive.
These men are true idiots of a very dangerous kind, and they deserve to have their idiocy exposed to the world, if only so that it may serve as a warning to the rest of us.
Yaron Golan, Not the Booker review