I love books that play with the linear narrative – I recently described Eleanor Catton’s The Rehearsal as being like a garment that’s knit – partly ripped out – reknit – etc. The texture of the wool and the tension change every so slightly with every ‘retelling.’ I think this kind of novel calls for the same willing suspension of disbelief people usually only bring to theatre and film – but I like it when fiction demands it of the reader. So – another one added to the ‘to read’ list.