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Ngoc Anh ngocanhtran — **SPOILERS AHEAD** This is the second book in the past month (following Colson Whitehead's The Intuitionist) where I've felt like the illustrious critics writing the glowing reviews that grace the jacket are like traders playing the futures market. There's no denying that Flanagan has great talent, but I'm not sure that Gould's Book of Fish is the masterpiece so many of the blurbs paint it to be, and it's certainly not (as one of them put it) "a partial answer to the question of the relative value of human existence." There is lots of imagination at work in the Book of Fish. The reconstruction of the colonization of Tasmania is fevered and vivid if a bit myopic at times (Sarah Island often seemed as if it were the size of someone's backyard, and the overall claustrophobic nature of the book, while probably intended to a degree, was a bit too much for me). The book's book about a book that's a reconstruction of a book that's a reconstruction of a book hook felt a bit familiar--kind of postmodern old hat at this point (the ghosts of House of Leaves, most of Eco's work, and Borges' "Pierre Menard," and even Delany's Dhalgren hang heavy). This book feels like it very much wants to be about narrative structure, but loses that thread for much of the middle before picking it up again in the Crayfish chapter when Gould discovers that the registers he'd kidnapped from the penitentiary office are in fact the manuscript that he himself is living. The afterword, which reveals Fight Club-style that Gould has himself been all of the characters he's described, wants desperately to be clever, but it really adds nothing to the content of the book. It should be suckerpunch but it just produces a bemused "...huh." What I got from The Book of Fish, what I take to be its central meaning, is that all history is invented. The main character (both Gould and Hammett) is a forger. The book is an elaborate recreation of nothing that ever happened. The multiplicity of personalities are really all products of the mind of the (invisible) writer. This revelation alone is not worth the 400+ pages it took to deliver. The mediations on racism, self-delusion, and the general savagery of human existence take up the bulk of the novel but are really just the (occasionally relevant) padding around the existential framing questions. I think Flanagan has it in him to write a Great Novel, but I don't think Book of Fish is it. It has great moments, great descriptions, some amusing or horrifying set-pieces, and a mostly good sense of place, but it feels like a dress-rehearsal for something truly significant. Too many of Flanagan's attempts at philosophical thought ring hollow or fall short of the meaning they're grasping for. Too many fragments go nowhere. I enjoyed reading it and will certainly look for other books by him, but I felt let down at the end.