What can we ever know of a book that was never published, a book with a marginal existence, its only trace a brief and ephemeral description on a website? We must uncover its fragments like any other lost work, scour the ruins for clues: the title, for instance, goes beyond a simple signifier (denoting "here is this book, supposedly unlike others") and becomes a declarative statement, a challenge in fact. Years of sanctified psycho-analysis are turned on their head: it is a gob of spit in the face of Western empiricism, confronting us with the fact that, at base, all our supposed science is motivated by unsavory impulses, that our so-called objectivity is impelled by bad faith: we will concoct an entire system to justify the fact that one man had sex with his mother. In this instance, regardless of whether we are equally guilty of breaching the incest taboo, we are all Freud. The anti-Freud, then, can only be the mysterious "God of Disco," who sets out to live an authentic life, a life free of illusions, a life in the style of the old hedonism, a life that says squarely "mea culpa, friends, mea maxima culpa": in short, instead of afflicting others with his justifications (the quintessence of psychiatry), the "God of Disco" acknowledges and takes full responsibility for his own meaninglessness. He is Nietzsche's Last Man transmogrified, through his shocking insight, into a figure even beyond the ubermensch: he just might be Christ. This is the sublime truth for our times.
Also, "Fuck Lobster" makes me laugh.