I don't often write reviews here, but after scanning some of the entries for this novel I felt called to rehabilitate it a little. As with any writing about technology, context is important and shelf life is limited, but Book of Numbers is a fascinating attempt to grapple with writing and living in the internet age. It stops short of addressing social media explicitly, and was written before the rancor of 2016, but if you're interested in the literary introspection of a failed author (yes, the Roth comparisons are apt) and tech history/issues, blog/forum vernacular, and what being online has done to our lives, this novel deserves the investment it requires. I'm not sure it was entirely successful-it was too long and the ending didn't quite satisfy my personal expectations, but it's an ambitious project and worth reading for the shameless 21st century Nabokov-esque wordplay alone. ( )

A masterpiece. Relentlessly clever. The demented techno wordplay will ripple into the future, endlessly perplexing jaundiced, crusty historians of so-called traditional literature as it astounds and speaks to every savvy and savage child of our screen-dependent age.

A big book of inside jokes, which, in DFW-fashion, elicits a gut-reaction on every page via the reflexive verbal elbowing the reader receives from the author. The biggest workout for my Kindle's touch-definition function since I-really-don't-know. After scouring the Internet for obscurities and unearthing passive, yet scathing intellectual personas, Cohen's abrasive literary gimcracks metamorphose into gymnastic prose, sprinkled - no, lathered with so many jargon-toffees that you will suffer neologistic dry heaves. Get comfortable with your mind's perpetual reeling so that the momentum it generates can propel you headlong through the novel, barreling out the other side, still insatiably longing for more. However, where does brilliance end and indulgence begin? Haven't we had enough writers writing about writers resembling themselves, living out their fictional fantasies in scarcely veiled pseudo-fictional accounts? Luckily, Cohen's voice, while too clever for its own good, is personable to the point of undeniable familiarity, and his satire is aimed at exactly the type of weiners he envies.

Yet, are we supposed to excavate the ironies, searching for a semblance of truth in his account of corporate cesspools, technocracies, etc. or take his power fantasy at face value, his rampant sarcasms and viral wordplay as illusive chimeras of his inner Paul Auster? ( )

We agree with what we said in earlier. Review: We ambidextrously bit us a bit more than we could choose.
See: anything, ever. But that. ( )

This is the bread of affliction. Eli Eli lama shavaktani? Father, Father, why didn’t Christ quote the Psalms in Hebrew—was he that inept, or does excruciation always call for the vernacular?

This isn't for most people. Even the intrepid biosphere of goodreads will find this alarming, if not unnecessary. I do appreciate Cohen's project, even if it is maddening. There is a dash of Trollope, lanced with Sade, pushing a ready mirror to our media-drunk rictus. The result isn't pretty.

Technology has a taxonomy and a mantra: creations abound and the flesh is made manifest. There are times when the ontology of a search engine is almost repugnant to read about. I likely wouldn't have finished this if it weren't the holidays. I should thank my sister. Her stilted rant against a living wage wedged me away. A younger Jon would have advised her to fuck a goat. The weary 2015 model took refuge in this book and asked kindly if his wife would drive them home.

Nope, couldn't get into this one, not for me ( )