It’s a strange feeling to be so disaffected by a novel that primarily concerns itself with emerging technologies. Perhaps the book is intentionally this disaffecting; perhaps it’s a commentary on the way technology has distanced us from true communication. But if this is the case, there has to be a less boring way to explore this than Tom McCarthy’s C would suggest.

The plot is best summarised as thus: Serge Carrefax (one expects this is an intentional pun on the electricity related “surge”) is born. From an early age, Serge exposed to wireless radio and other technologies by his father. His sister dies in adolescence; he becomes a wireless operator in spotter planes, studies architecture in London and finally heads to Egypt to set up a world-spanning communications network.

C has been described as an “anti-novel” and it’s not hard to see why. Although it brims with ideas and does contain some great scenes, it explores them in such a leisurely manner that it takes great patience to keep reading. The plot, for the most part, seems more interested in its central concept than in any real examination of the character of Serge, and while this may be cleverly reminiscent of the great novels of the 1960’s, it doesn’t make for a great reading experience.

If you’re interested in philosophy and literature as a medium for meta-communication then definitely read C. If you think books are too damn enjoyable these days, and are fascinated by the early days of radio transmission, then by all means, pick this book up. But for this particular reviewer, however, C feels more like a literary exercise in bedazzlement than an enjoyable transmission of ideas from author to reader.