2 out of 4 stars
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Michel Bruneau’s fiction novel, My Author is Dead (2016), places a magnifying glass over classic and perpetually relevant Kafkaesque themes centered on social divisions and bureaucracy as religion. Situated in a village that embodies hyper-religiosity and its influence on malfunctioning due process stands fifteen years old Adam Chad Kilroy. The book’s eccentric protagonist finds himself at the center of ceaseless ill-fated events while struggling with his own bizarre existentialism. What becomes is a satire that is rich with acerbity and, at the same time, stirs in its reader philosophical ruminations.
I was taken by the prologue and first chapters; Adam’s narrative is full of wit and candor and the presentation of this dystopian village sparks my curiosity about the Authorians, Kafkaists, and Illiterantes that comprise Cimmerian County. The idea of these groups is an intriguing quality that sets up all the necessary conflicts for Adam to contend with. I am interested in the dynamics of the different sects’ belief systems and practices and how they interact with their opposers. I also find the settings to be very well crafted. There is nothing commonplace about the environment; indeed, it serves as a pivotal role in various situations that is brilliant forethought from Bruneau.
One of the most effective aspects of this novel is Adam’s personality. Not only does he have a satirical bent, his passion for words and the way his interest is expressed on the page is a creative feat for the novel. I truly enjoy the bracketed asides where Adam interprets his own definitions of specific words or ideas that are sprinkled throughout the novel. These humorous tidbits and observations are delightful gleans into the main character’s personality and allow the reader to connect with him. Another effectual component is dialogue. Many of those with whom Adam speaks, such as his grandfather and the torturer, provide unique characterizations that do not cease to entertain. Through these conversations, the reader has an outlet to develop emotional investment in the otherwise frenzied plot twists and periods of stagnation.
My initial reaction upon finishing the book is, unfortunately, disappointment. I am dissatisfied with the innumerable typographical errors and syntactical flops that distract my reading to the eventual point of frustration. There are instances where dialogue is unoriginal when it should be a distinguishing feature. For example, of the many people who populate the novel, a little girl and an obscure prisoner share identical pseudo-French accents and are in no other way connected to each other. There are expository stretches that should have been spent broadening other facets that make this story inventive. Despite the stages of resolution that come in the second half of the book, there is at once too much and too little happening for the story to progress or evolve the way it clearly intends to. I, as a reader, felt underestimated by the authorial decisions that were made as the plot sank into a layered abyss of subplots.
I rooted for Bruneau to reclaim Adam’s narrative authority and exhibit some indication of personal growth. His relationship with the novel’s love interest, June, appears baseless despite—if not more so because of—their childhood interactions. There is very little development in either June’s character, her dialogue, or her relationship with Adam. She is repeatedly described in a static manner where there exists the opportunity to shed more light on her person. The same can be said for the group whose namesake serves as the foundation for the entire novel’s existence: the Kafkaists. While the reader expects the story to surround Adam as the protagonist, the lens of narrative perspective is too focused on him. The other characters of interest become muffled and ill-defined, and this is where the novel is most ineffective.
My Author Is Dead is ideal for students and lovers of modern fiction. Those who enjoy contemporary works that incorporate classical texts will likely find this novel interesting. I particularly love that this novel presents itself as a metanarrative that appropriates elements from Franz Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis” and “The Trial” and applies them to a microcosmic dystopia that exaggerates the canonized texts.
I give Michel Bruneau’s My Author Is Dead 2 out of 4 stars. I forgive Bruneau’s caricature of Gregor Samsa because he adeptly accomplishes bureaucracy as religion, the symbolism of doors, and events occurring in confined spaces. However, Bruneau’s failure to provide meaningful information on the Kafkaists combined with the aforementioned typos and poor composition are not artful enough to be scapegoated by the story’s climactic reveal. Bruneau should have doubled-down on his concept of the laissez-faire author or left this off to provide quality writing. Many of the negative qualities of this novel can be explained away by the purpose of the narrative, and I respect Michel Bruneau for writing a novel that is essentially impervious to critique as the novel is, in and of itself, a critique of narrative. However smart this concept is, its execution is underwhelming and I simply cannot outweigh the unsuccessful aspects with those that were effective.
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My Author Is Dead
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