Momus, a.k.a. Nick Currie is a multitalented artist--"polymath" they speak of scientists--who is being unfairly kept down by his own versatility. He is, of course, best known as a rock musician of no mean talent; I consider him a true heir to late/late John Lennon of "Strawberry Fields" and "Imagine" fame though this opinion is rarely shared. But he is also a musical critic, quite an accomplished photographer, connoisseur of architecture and a collector of exotic women including Japanese feminist radicals, an underage daughter of a Bangladeshi merchant and a French princess of Russo-Polish lineage, who lives in Germany, though in the last case I am not sure she is not a fembot.
His talent of the novelist reflect this polymorphous erudite culture. In his "Scotlands" he flawlessly passes from philosophical discourse, to socio-cultural criticism, to the vilest pornography (Scotland 28). You can imagine him as more sober but less stylistically refined companion to recently deceased D. F. Wallace, whose masterpiece "The Infinite Jest" would benefit much from the length similar to Momus', so it would not require a grant to finish it up. But his narrative gift is less strong and he reminds the reader of testosterone-pumped but rather cold version of Borges. Buy this book, enjoy it, but do not expect great discoveries for his real vocation is music.
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