You Shall Know Our Velocity (Hardcover)

Will seems to be the volition of the book, Hand the physicality. In a magical-realist twist, we're told on the first page by Will that he'll die, and through the novel, we notice his awareness that he is writing - he even provides us with incidental photographs and scans; however, his knowing is never qualified: we're shown maps that should actually be buried and realise he's taken no camera with him... I can only think these aspects have a designed ambiguity to them, but we're never reconciled to the fact that the narrator knows his own death. How does he, can he, know this? Only because the author has decided to let him know?

Will chose not to give his money to charity but fly to second- and third-world countries giving it away. This decision is never justified, but is the backbone of the narrative. The narrator comments, money is the language he speaks; they stop to give US dollars to some women on the road, expecting their lives to benefit and change; this is an arrogant assumption of the narrator, and poses the question, more so with each donation: Why do these young men believe their dollars will affect with such profundity, when they never ask - What is the daily drive of the West doing to the welfare of billions, apart from the few peasants they happen to pass?
Thus, they live blinkered lives (a topical observation besides) - they haven't given thought to the inequality between them and those they witness on their trip; they seem so intent on ridding themselves of money, they end up throwing it out the window, not caring who gets it. You feel anger for this; in their overtired state they've benefited no one, and lost regard for the good that money can bring, being too concerned with the confusion it creates in their own lives. Why not analyse money on a broader level, rather than centric to the characters' lives and how they're affected by it? (This is touched on lightly when on a plane Will feels guilty about distribution of wealth.)

There are some technical innovations here, such as the internal dialogues introduced by Joycean em-dashes: for me the most amusing and poetical writings; and the frequent dropout of thought, marked in this case by the Sternean em-dash. His design is as sensitive as William Gass's, and though some may find the tricks (blank pages, Ford Broncos) distracting or pointless, they succeed, in a postmodern sense, if only as ornateness for ornateness's sake. He owes, this time around, something to John Barth and WG Sebald.
There were many typographical errors, and at times, passages felt under-edited; but the writing is humorous (the money pouch episodes were hilarious) if not slightly unworldly and immature; but that is quite apt for the characters, and is - being their main weakness - part of their likeableness.
But when Will compares cities he visits to places in the US, later commenting everything in the world looks like something in America - which depresses him because nothing will ever look new to him - at this point I wish he'd just stayed at home.
Will's grief is dealt with in a realist manner; it's overlong, but is heartfelt. He does, in his own way, attempt to digress discursively on matters such as existence, God, determinism and purpose, but seems ultimately to want to give us a chuckle: I think this book could have tackled some meatier themes.
Figuratively, there are some original sketches, the riff with the sliding door the first of many. The binding and presentational aspects are amusing, but words are what stick, and in this case, the book's quirkiness gives it its charm and individuality, but I wanted it to be more serious for sake of longevity; this is not to say humour detracts literary credibility - not at all - but immaturity (writerly, not personal) certainly does.
A Time review praised this novel for inventing the verb Van-Horn. For me this exemplified a problem: the narrator relates to first-hand foreign, humanistic, and natural experiences, much like many young Westerners: through reference to pop-culture, TV and cinema. This is common - a sign of the times - but these similes and metaphors have a sell-by date, will soon read stale, obsolete, or felt without true consideration.

I found this novel profound when read as a metaphor for modern Western life, as a youth, after the existentialists - whose realisations led them to nihilism and depression; but in a postmodern world, we're now born with these findings as fact. The world-trip metaphors life itself, while the constant set-backs and pointlessness of the narrator's mission can be read as things we encounter in everyday life: our modern struggle. The purposelessness of the mission is pervading, the only drive they feel is to get to the next destination; though once there, despondency and the urge to keep moving are renewed. There was nothing in the text that spurred this interpretation; one can find more evidence for reading its surface concerns; but was it designed by the author, an unconscious coincidence, or reader intertextualisation? All valid, it sealed the integrity nonetheless (also lending weight - interestingly - to symbolism: Jack's funeral, the beating).

This is an avant-garde novel which succeeds - despite its flaws - in being both a progressive and entertaining work.

It's certainly full of clever ideas. Starting the story on the front cover is good, but I read the book on the beach and the suntan oil had mostly smeared it by the time I finished.

Still the story was smart enought to keep me reading, different enough to impress me, but not quite as quirky as I had hoped. I guess I was hoping for just a little more.

The spiel about Egger's book makes comparisons between his prose and that of Saul Bellow or James Joyce. I confess these comparisons seemed frankly ridiculous!