The most-hyped debut novel of 2008 begins well for us but badly for its hero: his car runs off a cliff, and he gets burned over most of his body. His face melts into a monstrous scar. He is in chronic pain. His penis has been amputated. His life is over. He is a "spent, struck match." Before the accident, the nameless hero of Andrew Davidson's The Gargoyle (Double-day; 468 pages) was a freakishly handsome, drug-addicted porn star who was also, deep breath, an orphan and a misunderstood genius who secretly wrote poetry. This is what Brits call overegging the pudding. But in the burn ward, he becomes almost plausible. He banters bitterly with his doctors and plans an elaborate suicide. Davidson could have just stopped here and called it The American Patient.
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