Plastic
In Plastic, the collision of figurines and the apocalypse is timely, coming as it does on the heels of 'Barbenheimer.' It's a weird, sometimes puzzling and complicated book, to be sure, but an affecting one with way more depth and humanity than its title would let on.
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The novel’s sustained W.T.F. brazenness deserves applause. While its debt to David Foster Wallace is apparent — and perhaps too much for some — Plastic also earns comparisons to works by Tom McCarthy, Kazuo Ishiguro and even Bertolt Brecht. Its rigorously superficial world manages to raise urgent questions about climate change, political violence and spirituality with high intelligence.
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Alongside the novel’s inventive and humorous imagery, Plastic is deeply invested in questions of authenticity in the face of commercialized social pressures, and in the burden of responsibility—at individual and planetary scales—within that society. Also, there are dance numbers ... This is an immensely fun, engaging novel, and if I started reading it as though it were a puzzle—how is this world like this, why is this world like this—I finished it just deeply impressed with it qua novel, without needing my questions answered. The way that reality shifts throughout the story is really interesting, and compelling in its specifics, without feeling subordinated to some larger explanation. There’s a seamless, level-jumping fluidity to the imagery here: a sense that its ultimate objects and concerns are solid, underneath a vibrant and multifarious symbolism ... Where Plastic shines is in how it remains focused on humanity—no matter how superficial or hollow circumstances make us—and in its sheer inventive sense of play, even with such stakes.
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