A post-postmodern crime novel set on the clean streets of Dublin’s leafiest suburb, Sloot has at its heart an accidental detective who’d rather write his own Celtic-screwball-noir than solve the crime, and a narrator who loses the plot. Literally. Sound complicated? Not so. Thanks to a revolutionary structure, The Inquisitive Bullet, it’s simplicity itself. Detours include proof that psychoanalysis is the oldest profession, validation of the dictum `For what is comedy but tragedy with loose trousers’, and a brief aside on the possibility of an Irishman having multiple birth mothers. While the plot bullet speeds, inquisitively, towards its target – the final full stop.
I must admit, I got a little confused by this book. I got a bit lost in the strange detours of the plot and the slightly mad bits. But it is a very clever concept, playing with the rules of metafictional narratives and the genre of crime fiction intelligently and with flair.
It seems like a straightforward crime novel at times, but with all the little side plots and the narrator going a bit off on several of their own tangents, it’s a lot more complex and has a depth to it despite its’ slim appearance.
I was kindly gifted a copy of this book with no obligation to review. All opinions remain my own.