It's no secret that I love this work of fiction - I even blurbed it on the back cover. It is frankly one of the most brilliant works of fiction I have read in a long time. You know, we're told that novels shouldn't be like this, we're told that novels should be something else. But Spurious eschews this notion - and becomes a novel like no other because of it. Dripping in scathing wit, irony and deep, deep despair it pulls the reader in. Holding us close. Both laugh-out-loud-funny and achingly sad it seems to exist somewhere strangely in between these two extremes. Lars Iyers balances these opposites with all the vim and skill of a funambulist. But what strikes me most about Spurious is that packed within this flimsy, little oddity of a novel is a whole philosophical discourse that seeks to examine the rupture between eastern and western thought, the incurable obsession with our own endtimes, and the cyclical nature of the death drive – and Lars Iyers STILL manages to make all this a hoot! Wonderful Stuff.
RourkeLee, Not the Booker review