Shelby's Time is the kind of novel you suspect will fall apart halfway through. And yet—somewhere between absurdist comedy and ascending confusion—the book begins to cohere.
Shelby believes he's from the future, with the barest of proof. It also doesn't seem to help him, or anyone else, even if it's true.
He bounces from town to town, job to job, and girl to girl—from Rat Town to Sea Cliff—a town near neither sea nor cliff—until he meets the buoyant Chelsea, a hotel concierge who admits to guests there are no good restaurants to recommend unless they're willing to get on an airplane.
Shelby's pencil drawings are in the book. So are his chaotic inner thoughts, as he narrates his fall from grace and comes to a final revelation that's one revelation too late.
Shelby's Time will not be taught in college or quoted in commencement speeches. You probably won't finish it thinking the book will win a prize for literature.
But you might finish it thinking: Well that was… truly insane.
Then you might find yourself wanting to read it again.
