D. Foy’s second novel is a tornado of brutal Americana. Patricide is a heavy metal Huck Finn that whips up the haunted melancholy of Kerouac’s Doctor Sax, a novel of introspection and youth in its corruption that seethes with the deadly obsession of Moby-Dick, and the darkness of Joy Williams’ State of Grace. Beyond the story of a boy growing up in a family derailed by a hapless father, Patricide is a search for meaning and identity within the strange secrecy of the family. This is an existential novel of wild power, of memories, and of mourning-in-life, softened, always, by the tenderness at its core. With it, Foy’s place among the outstanding voices in American literature is guaranteed.

Matthew Specktor says, I already knew Foy was a genius. Now I’m beginning to think he’s a saint. Scott Cheshire calls Patricide a true work of art–addictive, hypnotic, relentless. Dennis Cooper calls this bold, exhilarating novel simply fantastic.

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