This was hardcore. The book-within-a-book, the dead artist interludes, the post-structuralist tangents (that are not really tangents), the fishing and woodworking... all of this begs to be read, as in read for a course. Or footnoted. Or CliffsNoted, I don't know. In short, I am not smart enough for this book, you guys. And I think it's a testament to Percival Everett's talent that I loved a book that I knew was at least in part flying over my head. I can see myself re-reading this and getting more out of it than I did this time. There are precious few books that leave me welcoming that particular impression.