To give you a small sample of the greatness of this book, I volunteer this excerpt from the back cover:
“Who is the person? The person is you. The person is me. The person is sitting in his room shooting an empty pellet gun at his face, feeling the slow exhaustion of a Co2 cartridge. The person sits in a bathtub reading his roommate’s yearbook. He wants to create a contract mandating worldwide friendship. Person invents new and splendid ways of not getting along. You will read this book and remember why you mainly read books that have sex in them. You will become . . . a person.”
Sam Pink’s new novel, Person, is a book where nothing really happens. A person wanders around Chicago, feeling alternately morose and elated. Although the eponymous Person lives in an apartment, I have never read a book that felt more homeless.
The occasional “Other Version” of a chapter (in which something only vaguely dissimilar to the first version happens) emphasizes the feeling of uncertainty.
I believe that Sam Pink has access to some of the most universal human feelings and an uncanny ability to make the reader feel them, too.