C

An idiosyncratic history of the early days of wireless communication, a primer on ancient Egyptian cosmology, an insider's view of WWI bombing raids as seen through drug-addled eyes, C, by Londoner Tom McCarthy is a cabinet of curiosities. C tells the story of Serge Carrefax, brother to his muse, Sophie, and son to his eccentric and quintessentially English inventor father and deaf mother. Serge's fascination with codes and systems of communication pull him along the turbulent arc of his life. Horrible things happen in his world—his sister is a victim of sexual abuse, he becomes a drug addict during a stint engaged in bombing air-raids—yet through it all he remains perpetually curious and detached. It's one of McCarthy's many achievements that within his odd emotionless parameters, Serge never becomes a monster. An impressive array of storylines, like the transmitting wires that continually sprawl across the numerous landscapes of the book, hold C together, with McCarthy manipulating them with a puppet master's dexterity. But should this all sound too cold and analytical, McCarthy saves the best for the end, pulling many of C's startling, puzzling scenes into a brilliant, kaleidoscopic coalescence that's as astonishing as it is moving. Utterly unique, mystifying, and captivating, C is a rare book and McCarthy a writer of tremendous powers.