In a style inspired by the acerbic rants of Thomas Bernhard and the darkly introspective meanderings of W.G. Sebald, this novel is everything but a novel, and goes everywhere except its aim. The unnamed author (who hesitates to call himself one) is attempting to write a book about death, but constant derails, distractions and diatribes prevent him from ever making it past the introduction. From Fyodor Doestoyevsky to Francesca Woodman to Otzi the Iceman and everything between, plagued with anxieties about a possible cancer diagnosis, the author's wandering mind can never be still long enough to begin.