Rob Doyle's latest novel, Cameo, is a biting satire of literary celebrity in the culture war era. The book centers around Ren Duka, a bestselling Dublin novelist whose life story is presented as a sprawling, autofictional narrative that defies easy categorization. Duka's career has taken him from the streets of Baghdad to the halls of power in Dublin, with stops at drug dealers' dens, terrorist cells, and even time behind bars for tax evasion.
Through Duka's eyes, Doyle skewers the pretensions of literary life, where writers are reduced to caricatures of themselves. We hear snatches of monologues from various figures connected to Duka - including an actor who can't stop playing him, a punk novelist with a grudge against Doyle himself, and even Doyle's own voice, offering wry asides on the absurdity of it all.
The writing is quick-witted and hyperbolic, with Doyle using an abundance of adjectives ("satanic," "terrible") to convey his disdain for the culture war antics of writers like Duka. The satire is wicked, targeting everything from Duka's over-the-top right-wing politics to his own dubious claims about the inspirations behind his work.
Despite its dizzying pace, Doyle takes care not to get too bogged down in the minutiae of Duka's life story. Instead, he uses the book as a vehicle for exploring the tensions between authenticity and fabrication, with writers struggling to separate fact from fiction in their pursuit of literary fame.
While some may find Cameo's conceit exhausting - we're asked to suspend our disbelief time and again as we follow Duka through his various adventures - Doyle's energy is infectious. His prose is engaging, and the book's momentum keeps you turning pages long after you've lost track of what's fact and what's fiction.
Ultimately, Cameo is a slippery game - part satire, part autofiction, part fantasy of literary celebrity. Whether it will be to your taste depends on whether you can stomach Doyle's penchant for self-deprecation and his willingness to expose the absurdities of literary life.
Through Duka's eyes, Doyle skewers the pretensions of literary life, where writers are reduced to caricatures of themselves. We hear snatches of monologues from various figures connected to Duka - including an actor who can't stop playing him, a punk novelist with a grudge against Doyle himself, and even Doyle's own voice, offering wry asides on the absurdity of it all.
The writing is quick-witted and hyperbolic, with Doyle using an abundance of adjectives ("satanic," "terrible") to convey his disdain for the culture war antics of writers like Duka. The satire is wicked, targeting everything from Duka's over-the-top right-wing politics to his own dubious claims about the inspirations behind his work.
Despite its dizzying pace, Doyle takes care not to get too bogged down in the minutiae of Duka's life story. Instead, he uses the book as a vehicle for exploring the tensions between authenticity and fabrication, with writers struggling to separate fact from fiction in their pursuit of literary fame.
While some may find Cameo's conceit exhausting - we're asked to suspend our disbelief time and again as we follow Duka through his various adventures - Doyle's energy is infectious. His prose is engaging, and the book's momentum keeps you turning pages long after you've lost track of what's fact and what's fiction.
Ultimately, Cameo is a slippery game - part satire, part autofiction, part fantasy of literary celebrity. Whether it will be to your taste depends on whether you can stomach Doyle's penchant for self-deprecation and his willingness to expose the absurdities of literary life.