?ric Chevillard here seeks to clear up a persistent and pernicious
literary misunderstanding: the belief that a novel's narrator must
necessarily be a mouthpiece for his or her writer's own opinions. Thus,
we are introduced to a narrator haunted by a deep loathing for
cauliflower gratin (and by a no less passionate fondness for trout
almondine), but his monologue has been helpfully and hilariously
annotated in order to clarify all the many ways in which this gentleman
and ?ric Chevillard are nothing alike. Language and logic are pushed to
their farthest extremes in one of Chevillard's funniest novels yet.