A forgotten oddity from the late 1980s, Bracewell’s first novel is a lithe offering of overwritten prose that constantly strains for the poetic at the expense of character or plot, leaving only a series of opaque set-pieces that linger on the vapidity of the upper-middle-class personnel without wringing a single note of satire. Frequently prone to overly strained metaphors and similes—“Like a drugged king singing [sic] his own death warrant as the revolutionary committee crowded around the throne, I shook hands.”—the novel’s obsessive pursuit of a striking literary phrase (and there are many) ultimately leaves the rest of the narrative (some dreary waffle about the narrator’s lovelife) without any interest.
Often funny and always brilliantly cynical this is also frequently poetic. What strikes me most is that it makes 1988 sound like ancient history as there is no social media. People can disappear for months and communicate by post card and letter.
When I read this book, I think Bryan Ferry of Roxy Music may wished he wrote "The Crypto-amnesia Club." A short novel that is more of a mood piece then anything else. i m not sure if this is Michael Bracewell's first novel, but it is not as strong as his other works. Saying that it is sort of a must-read if you like his work, and I generally love his novels.
Obsession with one woman in sort of a twilight London that flickers in and out of one's consciousness. And yes, Mid-period Roxy Music should be the soundtrack to this book.