People, I thought Joyce Carol Oates’ Fox was going to be my book of the year but the genteel Old World wordsmith Oates was slayed by this young dude Tony Tulathimutte. Oates is still brilliant but even she can’t do with language what Tulathimutte does. I want to finish his book, re-read it five times in a row and then possibly lick it. God truly loves me to have given me this book.
I have to issue two warnings, though, if people decide to read it.
One is that it gets very sexually explicit in stomach-turning ways. I had to skip 3 whole pages, and I’m a literary critic, I never skip.
The second warning is that unless you are young(ish) and terminally online, you’ll need a dictionary to understand parts of it.
This book is a novelistic rendering of Neoliberal Love. And it’s extremely funny. And talented. It’s so good that drops of linguistic ambrosia are practically dripping off its pages. It was long listed for the National Book Award that was won by the ideological propaganda slog James, which goes to show how stupid the literary establishment is. Rejection wasn’t even short listed, which is insane.

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