This is a disturbing but very good novel. The misogyny of the protagonist stands against the sensitivity and horror of his project, and this has one of the best final pages I have read in a long time. If anyone out there lives in Pittsburgh, please track Horacio Moya down and let me talk to him!

This is a wickedly funny novella; not laugh-out-loud humour, but a drier kind that had me smirking most of the way throughout the book. It reminded me a lot of the lecturer I had for my first two years studying Spanish, though – the main character here is a paranoiac of an academic who's supposed to be editing a 1,100-page report into massacres of indigenous people, but actually spends most of his time boozing and womanising. So you know, they seemed to have a lot in common. This probably enhanced my enjoyment of the book though, the sense that all of these misfortunes were befalling his Central American alter ego. One thing I would say about this book, though, is that going in I really thought it was going to talk about the ways indigenous narratives get rewritten and thus reinterpreted by the exact kinds of forces like the Catholic Church here compiling this 1,100-page report. Considering the number of times that the narrator commented that the testimonies he proofread were so lyrical he thought they had to have been composed by poets, I definitely thought it was going in that direction once I'd started to read it. But… then it didn't? It completely and totally failed to follow that up. Considering what an issue it is in historiography, the way indigenous voices (and really non-bourgeois voices in general) get sanitised and spoken over and reinterpreted in accordance with the ideology of the ruling class… I thought that raising the issue and then discarding it completely was such a missed opportunity. But oh well. I'm giving this four stars, even though I had no real issues with it aside from that! It's a really entertaining, quick read.