I'm not very good with postmodern novels, they tend of overwhelm and frighten me. I usually group them into three categories; mindfuck, clever as fuck, and Too Much. This is definitely in the clever as fuck category. I didn't really enjoy the style, but that's not really the point of the genre. A lonely retired English doctor is obsessed with Flaubert and tries to discover exactly which parrot sat on the famous author's desk. He also doesn't like talking about his wife. Features interfering critics, made-up love affairs, missing letters and visits to various French towns. After reading this, I often look at some of the criticism I come across and think 'this is just trying to find Flaubert's parrot'. By the way, I personally think that the joke is that the narrator is the actual 'parrot', as he tries to rearrange and interpret facts, unaware that he sees everything through a highly subjective lens.
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