The Fermata

Once in a while I venture back towards “literary fiction” in the hope that maybe there's more to it than WASPy sexual dysfunction.

Nope.

I've never understood this fascination literary writers or their fans have with self referential composition as end to itself–a profoundly empty meta. Congrats to Baker for reaching Ondaatje levels of lettered masturbation.

As an aside, man has this book not aged well to boot. The adventures of a serial rapist are not as charming or funny as Baker seems to think he makes them.