Equally readable and aesthetic, Dixon presents his man, a sort of Dixonian everyman perhaps?, in two novels creating an emotional variance and tone in each part despite aesthetically both novellas being written in the same internalised, aesthetic , compulsive vein. In fact, across the three novels I've read by Dixon, the internal voice doesn't change - Dixon's perennial narrator seems to carry the same pretensions, frailties and insecurities across them all - his fictional internal life gaining bilious traction.
Dixon's voice is intoxicating and hilarious but the novel's endless block-like, paragraph-free structure (akin to Thomas Bernhard at least in terms of interiorization as well as how it physically looks on the page) belies (also akin to Bernhard) a talent for: foreshadowing; ongoing, interlinked ironizations; and narrative framing.
Dixon's protagonist Gould could be a scion of Larry David - a sex-mad George Costanza, as shallow, desperate, politically-incorrect, craftily heinous or fumblingly idiotic. The novel had me laughing out loud (like virtually all other Dixon stuff I've read).
The second novel is more poignant. Damn, it's possibly both parts of this diptych are equally poignant. Dark stuff which makes no concession to conventional literary depth, but invites the reader to piece his own out of Gould's life and time, both mental and environmental across a span of decades.