
Monkfish2 Monkfish2
Asher Baum talks to himself, and by the end you will too, mainly to confirm this is both a novel and a well-dressed therapy session. It works as either, depending on your tolerance for existential dread delivered with pharmaceutical precision. Baum, a failed novelist with Freud’s insight and Job’s luck, paces a Connecticut pond obsessing over fidelity, success, and a universe that clearly didn’t RSVP to his suffering. He’s anxious, self-aware, self-defeating, and medicated. The book explores the gap between ambition and reality, mercifully with jokes. Its best lines sting, then linger. The internal dialogues are the real trick, Beckett with one actor, sustained with sharp timing. Supporting characters mostly orbit his neurosis, though a few moments land. There’s padding. Digressions sprawl. A late moral dilemma adds bite. The ending answers nothing important, which is the point. It won’t change your life, but it may make your next argument with yourself feel literary.