This is the story of a divorce, a history of the toilet, a novel of beginnings, a novel of verbs. It's an outrageously original book that flits from pillar to post. Just as you think you are getting the hang of it, it veers off somewhere else leaving you dazzled. Amazingly it’s both funny and erudite. I've read it three times now and seen more in it with each reading. Go on, treat yourself, try something completely different.
And why this sudden interest in flies? I'm trying to convince myself it's for the novel I'm writing. A multi-angled novel, like a fly's way of seeing. A novel full of details, matters small and invisible to the naked eye. A novel as banal as flies. See, I tell myself, that's why I need flies. Those insects that buzz above us, sleeping on the ceiling or strolling along on our tables; living and reproducing in decaying bodies and outhouses.
They and they alone are capable of connecting the ether to the chthonic realm of the toilet. The fly is the mediator of the world, the angel and the devil in one. What better model to base a novel on, what better allegory!