C by Tom McCarthy

Scene at the publishers

Dave: Where's the synopsis for the back cover?
Jo: I thought you were doing it?
Dave: Nope
Jo: Shit. OK let's write one together now. Right - what happens?
Dave: I can't remember.
Jo: Didn't you literally just finish it?
Dave: Yes - 10 minutes ago - but I can't remember a single thing about it. It's like a black hole. Oh my God - I've had a stroke or something.
Jo: No. I finished it yesterday and I can't remember anything about it either.
Dave: Are you sure? I'm not brain damaged?
Jo: No, seriously, I am not sure anything about it registered in my brain in the first place.
Dave: Maybe we could say something like "The mastery of Tom McCarthy is that he can produce an effect remarkably similar to rohypnol through the medium of the written word."
Jo: We don't want to open that can of worms. We must be able to remember something?
Dave: I think there may have been a bit about a war.
Jo: Which war?
Dave: First? Maybe.
Jo: And I am pretty sure the main character is male.
Dave: Hmm... That's probably not enough.
Jo: Well I'm not reading it again. It might enduce a coma the second time round.
Dave: Fuck it, we'll just tell him the book is written with such an intense, global force that's too powerful to be summarised and that readers shouldn't be patronised by a trite 'Readers Digest' synopsis.
Jo: That actually sounds quite good.
Dave: Well, it's pretentious and condescending. I expect he'll love it.
Jo: Definitely. And everyone will think it's really, really clever so all the critics will be too scared to say it's impenetrable bollocks in case someone thinks they don't understand it. It'll probably win a prize!
Dave: Just fill the back cover with white squiggles - and for Gods sake keep our logo small.

This concludes my review.