the surprise discovery of his wife's lactose intolerance becomes "an unknown hinterland to our marriage"

Remainder's way turns out to be an extreme form of dialectical materialism--it's a book about a man who builds in order to feel.

[...] For though these novels seem far apart, their authors are curiously similar. Similar age; similar class; one went to Oxford, the other, Cambridge; both are by now a part of the publishing mainstream, share a fondness for cricket and are subject to a typically British class/race anxiety that has left its residue. A flashback-inclined Freudian might conjure up the image of two brilliant young men, straight out of college, both eager to write the Novel of the Future, who discover, to their great dismay, that the great authenticity baton (which is, of course, entirely phony) has been passed on. Passed to women, to those of color, to people of different sexualities, to people from far off, war-torn places ... The frustrated sense of having come to the authenticity party exactly a century late!

The scatological thingy-ness of Joyce at his most antic.

Remainder ends instead in comic declension