Hey, this book is classified as fiction and non-fiction - what a thrill to be able to put it on two shelves, no? It is worth reading for that genre-bending feat as well. Of course, the shtick is just a shtick, as all fiction is filled with non- and all non- is filled with fiction.
Genre distractions aside, the book is a page-turner, even though it turned out that I had read two of the chapters before (one in the New Yorker, and one in Harpers). I was glad to get a chance to buzz through it all again, to ride a wave of connected narrative arcs, following a bumbling Jake Silverstein as he fails to make it as a magazine writer. Though he is nothing like Etgar Keret, I love this book for many of the same reasons I love a Keret book; it is light and has a loose tendency to touch on meaning, and just when you expect the plot to go somewhere, the protagonist gets in his car and admits failure, and just when you expect the plot to go nowhere, the protagonist happens upon a device that pushes it forward in unexpected ways.
The fiction here is almost indistinguishable from the non-fiction, and, while this is a testament to Silverstein's agility with his imagination, it is also a testament to his willingness to see the facts of his life for their more unblemished narrative potential. I'm not saying it's disingenuous, but one might read the book and think of the author as a failed magazine writer (a tough call for a former Harper's editor and the current chief of Texas Monthly), and would think of Marfa Texas as a random small town in west Texas, populated by cowboys rather than the incredibly weird mix of high-art emigres and art-foundation workers that make the city survive. His painting of these things is rather fictive, but I don't mind, as he seems to be calling himself out on this front anyway. On the whole, the reading is nothing if not fun. I can't wait to see what comes next.