Rating - 2: not worth reading (skip it)
Pomo crap. Abandoned 20% of the way through.
A meta-novel, If on a winter's night a traveler is ten first chapters, bound by a frame story about The Reader who is trying to get ahold of the book. He is thwarted by misprints, incomplete books, wrong titles, and other randomness and malignancies. The frame story is in the second person, so "you" are The Reader.
I am told that the book gets better, but I am not willing to put up with the writing style for long enough to give it the benefit of the doubt. I read it based more on a joke than a recommendation.
The problem is not the post-modernism. While pomo is easy to do badly, that is not the issue here. The gimmick is a clever idea. No, it is the writing itself.
I have cited annoyance with excessive direct characterization before. Putting that in the second person compounds it. Worse, the first couple of sub-stories (and maybe more, although the third one looks coherent) are entirely of that sort. I don't just mean, "John was a dour person," I mean, "The novel here repeats fragments of conversation that seem to have no function beyond that of depicting the daily life of a provincial city." That not an exaggeration; it is a direct quote from the novel, a fully self-referential sub-story that does not give you the initial reference. Part of me respects that, but you can imagine how it can quickly become annoying.
To give you an idea of how the non-self-referential writing is more annoying and cumbersome, I will grant you two sentences from the frame story, after "you" first discover that "you" have a misprinted book:
"You fling the book on the floor, you would hurl in out of the window, even out of the closed window, though the slats of the Venetian blinds; let them shred its incongruous quires, let sentences, words, morphemes, phonemes gush forth, beyond recomposition into discourse; through the panes, and if they are of unbreakable glass so much the better, hurl the book and reduce it to photons, undulatory vibrations, polarized spectra; through the wall, let the book crumble into molecules and atoms passing between atom and atom of the reinforced concrete, breaking up into electrons, neutrons, neutrinos, elementary particles more and more minute; through the telephone wires, let it be reduced to electronic impulses, into flow of information, shaken by redundancies and noises, and let it be degraded into a swirling entropy. You would like to throw it out of the house, out of the block, beyond the neighborhood, beyond the city limits, beyond the state confines, beyond the regional administration, beyond the national community, beyond the Common Market, beyond Western culture, beyond the continental shelf, beyond the atmosphere, the biosphere, the stratosphere, the field of gravity, the solar system, the galaxy, the cumulus of galaxies, to succeed in hurling it beyond the point the galaxies have reached in their expansion, where space-time has not yet arrived, where it would be received by nonbeing, or, rather, the not-being which has never been and will never be, to be lost in the most absolutely guaranteed undeniable negativity.My thanks to Bela's Handstand for having that, so I did not need to retype it. There, it is intended to be an inducement to read the book, so if those two sentences make you want hundreds of pages of them, this is your book!
May I recommend Book-A-Minute instead?