ok, this fucked me up. i have been fucked the fuck up. i've never thought so hard about a book after finishing it. i, as i always do, read this right before going to bed and it plagued my dreams. over and over again i asked myself, what...really...happened...? where was the 'beginning'? who's investigation is this? who is being investigated? who is the real victim?? what...?? happened...???? i've never read a mystery story quite like this, and i've never had one affect me quite like this. i wish i could tell you a brief overview of the novel but frankly, i'm not even sure myself. davis's storytelling, or the story's "siuzhet" (shoutout to my russian lit class), is absolutely phenomenal and engaging, cyclical and hazy, and very very meta.
from the beginning, we understand that the narrator is not the most reliable, but as the story progresses, we are pulled more and more into the instability and unreliablity of the narrator. we are sucked into his reality that may or may not be reality, and his dreams that may or may not be dreams. by the end, we are not sure at all what really happened, what was delusion, who did what to who and when. so delightfully confusing. there are meta storylines WITHIN the meta storyline itself, with the subplot of N's mystery novel, and the academics set on exposing california's destructive and exploitative history. there is a perfect amount of dread and unease, the perfect amount of gloom in the sunny san franscico setting. this story really reminded me of Dance Dance Dance by murakami, with the passive and slightly unreliable narrator, the haunted hotels, the jumbling of dreams and reality, the underlying atmosphere of trepidation and disquiet. except the narrator in the scapegoat is far less reliable and far more dangerous, and creates far more unease in the readers. murakami on lsd.
i would like to request from the author a linear timeline of the events as they happened in present time because. because this shit got me fucked up. i will be thinking about this book for a long time.