Forget crime-lit., or chick-lit., this is wit-lit. For Spurious is one of those rare little (quasi-) novels that is truly witty, not just funny or amusing. There is virtually no plot – simply a meandering account of two academic philosophers in search of truth, meaning and friendship, by way of gin and man-bags. But there is dialogue a-plenty, and shed-loads of wistful reflection, all of it expressed in the same kind of sparse but quirky humour that marked out Joseph Heller's Catch 22. In Spurious, the central character – Lars – is constantly and mercilessly lampooned by the imperious 'W', who claims that he, Lars, by his very existence has 'subtracted something from the world.' Indeed, Lars is so useless that a reflection in the waters around Plymouth is akin to 'the kraken of (his) idiocy', and he is so endearingly pathetic that 'W' likens him to a whining, 'sad ape locked up with its faeces'. Like two stage characters in a Beckett play, waiting for an end that may or may not come, they face life with stoicism and forlorn hope, whilst avoiding mould spores and dull conference speakers. Buy it, read it, and love it, for in these miserable times the laughter and the insights will sustain you for quite a while.
Paul Grosch, Not the Booker review
Lars Iyer's Blog 