Flann O'Brien writes some of the most bizarre fiction I have ever read. Considering the period in which it was written, it is far ahead of its time. There are plot twists, stories within stories, demons and fairies and curses (oh my!), vindictive saints, haunted houses, conspiracy theories, mad scientists, odd clerics, eccentric policemen, domineering uncles, bewildered orphans, bicycles with minds of their own, freely flowing liquor, and bartenders with secrets.
O'Brien has a way of starting a story in a very ordinary way and suddenly introducing the surreal, so much so that after the first novel (At Swim-Two-Birds) you are just holding your breath waiting for something uber-weird to happen in each successive story. As with the more recent magnum opus of Susanna Clarke, there is often a bright sparkling surface with a dark undercurrent.
One thing that surprised me was the fact that O'Brien recycled characters, plot elements and even whole passages from The Third Policeman for re-use in The Dalkey Archive. Despite the overlap, the two works are quite different. De Selby, for example, steps from the sidelines onto the stage.
Some of the novels were better than others; thus the rating is a kind of overall average. At Swim-Two-Birds was, in my estimation by far the most ambitious and original of the novels. It was also the hardest to wrap my head around. Having read it, however, I must say that I see MJ Nicholls' A Postmodern Belch in a rather different light now. I wonder what O'Brien and Nicholls would have to say to each other if, by some surreal breach of the fourth wall or the space-time continuum, they could actually have a conversation over a dram of something.