An amusing variation on the campus novel ... You get the feeling that Bordas... wants to put wokeness if not to bed, then down for a nice nap ... a stream of neurotic consciousness flowing from person to person, an extended "take my smartphone — please" routine, and an impressive piece of Q3 reading.
Brimming with insecure characters, clever repartee, dark jokes and funny riffs ... A couple of subplots involve guns that, like some of the comedy routines, never detonate. But there’s also plenty of clever material, not just in the half-baked "bits," but in discussions about what subjects are off-limits, and whether emotion is the enemy of comedy.
This is a novel about artists and what they think about all day – and it doesn’t exactly demolish any myths that their every waking moment is spent self-examining and remembering and theorising. I’m no standup so I can’t comment on the veracity of this, but it seems an exhausting way to live, let alone make a living. Is this what Bordas wants us to feel? But with its determinedly meandering plotlessness, the novel will ultimately stand (up) or fall depending on how much it makes you laugh.
Riffy, funny, whip-smart ... Bordas wittily constructs her narrative out of minor encounters, incidents, riffs, meditations ... What makes the book work, first and foremost, is that it’s funny ... But beneath the laughs and digressions lies a surprisingly profound book about the costs and consolations of art.
Clever ... A subplot involving reports of an active shooter on campus feels unnecessary; more successful are Bordas’s explorations of what a stand-up routine requires of its writer and what, if anything, is off-limits ... Occasional moments of broad comedy, like an embarrassing bathroom scene, spice up the observational humor incorporated throughout. It’s a knockout.
