If a detective story is set at an annual conference on Edgar Allen Poe in Buenos Aries, at which academics are not only at each other’s throats over whose interpretation of Poe shall reign supreme, but where one of them is actually murdered in a locked room, then you know you’re in for something a little different. But when one of the main characters is Jorge Luis Borges (who also pens the denouement, fictitiously of course), and the author weaves in H.P. Lovecraft’s Necronomicon, the works of Edgar Allen Poe, and John Dee’s idea that, given eternity, an orangutan could write all the books that have existed, then as a detective novel it’s safe to say this one’s located beyond the genre’s margins.
This book is not so much a literary romp as a disappearing act. Everything is a copy of a copy, and that's not ideal when you’ve got a murder to solve. But never fear, Borges saves the day, which is only fitting since he hated Marxists and communists with a passion, and was as a consequence snubbed by the libtards in Stockholm who have progressively humiliated themselves by awarding the Nobel Prize for Literature to ‘authors’ who aren’t fit to wash Borges’ underwear. (I slipped that last bit in so you know where you stand.)