What if racism was a place that you could actually visit? A town with borders, residents, and a spot on the map? No one would want to admit that this place exists - the state would make every effort to wipe it off the official record books. Yet how would that make the residents feel, particularly those who had lived there so long, were so used to thinking of that place as home, that they didn’t know where else to go? Put another way: if we declare victory in the war on racism (as many people would love to do), what does that do to the people who are still witnessing it and experiencing it every day?

Welcome to the world of The Sellout, a counterintuitive place where right is wrong, victims are oppressors, and broad social problems have a sharply personal sting. It’s a biting satire that lampoons a century or so of on-the-books racial progress without, somehow, a shred of cynicism. Each of the stages in our long national march towards progress is embodied in a different character, all of whom live in the same small (erstwhile) town of Dickens, California. And lest that metaphor get lost on any reader, the story climaxes with a Supreme Court case whose name (Me v. The United States of America) answers the main question perfectly: if racism was a place that you could actually visit, all of us would live there but no one would put that on an envelope.

This book is exceptionally clever. Its modus operandi is a rapid-fire succession of word play that calls to mind Finnegan’s Wake, but is much more coherent. Its characters are wicked, and funny, in one order or the other. Its plot is absurd, but only just. Still it drips with sympathy for those who feel the sting of bigotry, and more than a little rage at those who let it persist. The scenes are hilarious, and sometimes over-the-top. For example, about halfway through, the narrator (who is thought, by his neighbors, to be insufficiently race-conscious) attends a meeting of the local intelligentsia, and asks a question of Foy Cheshire (a quixotic, politically correct, anti-bigotry activist). The narrator can’t be heard because his mouth is full of Oreos. What is this guy doing speaking up at a meeting, the reader wonders, while eating cookies? And then: oh, of course, Oreos. It’s an irresistibly perfect scene.

I’m not entirely sure what to make of the fact that this book was the first by an American author to win the Man Booker prize (which, prior to 2014, had only been given to citizens of British Commonwealth countries.) Certainly it is more than deserving, and it stands up well to other prize winners - it is the sort of book which you want to reread, even a few pages at a time, if only just to savor the texture of the prose. And yet it is so sharply critical of American society - rightly so - that it’s hard not to read this prize award as a bit of a two-edged sword: well-earned accolades for the author, a kind of stinging rebuke for his country. All’s fair in literature, I suppose.

You should absolutely, without question, read this book. Then reread it!