The trick to reading Self-Titled, Ottawa writer Geoffrey Brown’s second novel, is to surrender to the work’s possibilities. But be warned: Brown takes his readers on a demanding verbal midway ride, giving words to thoughts that run helter skelter in the mind of a nameless, faceless, but certainly not thoughtless narrator.

Dividing his narrative into two sections, Brown utilizes a repetitive, poetic style that plays with words and their meanings and intentions. The first section serves up short, fragmented thoughts for the reader to ponder, while the second lets loose a long, continual rant that offers no rest.

Brown’s prose is the stuff renowned “minimalist” editor Gordon Lish’s dreams are made of. This style is not so new anymore, but Brown’s presentation takes the reader outside their expectations in ways that could never be contained in the confines of a neat narrative. His story, if it can be called that, has a quality that gnaws at the reader like a hunger, urging them on to seek something they can take a bite out of.

Self-Titled is essentially a literary optical illusion; the text can have several meanings, depending on how the reader looks at it. Brown’s deft sleight-of-hand with words invites readers to crack open his book at any page and just go. Nothing here is straightforward, but there are plenty of twists and curves that urge repeated readings, with each offering up a different take.