the 351 books of irma arcuri by david bajo
math, literature and sex dovetailed in a tight, complex narrative. the rare kind of book where if the reader zones out for a few minutes she needs to go back and re-read what she missed. not (always) because it makes gaps in the plot, but because otherwise she will miss out.
the writer obviously thinks, obviously reads, and obviously fucks. there is not a word of falsehood in this book - everything it contains has been felt and seen and experienced, and can be again.
it is my hope that this book is considered literature by the finest sort of readers, a century or two from now.
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