When I was younger and first came across the books from McSweeney's Press, the covers of these volumes created an expectation in me, a sort of ideal novel that was inspired by the images that adorned then. Unfortunately, none of the MP books I read ever quite measured up to that idea, and perhaps nothing else has, until this; a quietly unclassifiable novel, subtly fantastic and full of whimsy bordering at times on the twee - perhaps reminiscent of a gentler Vonnegut - but still possessing genuine sorrow and angst at its core. An offbeat and distinctly unique book, for me, it brought the works of Wes Anderson and Steven Millhauser to mind, as well as Hal Hartley's The Unbelievable Truth for some reason, but I haven't encountered anything else quite like it.