"Oh, shit. I've given back tens of millions. Some of these guys, these billionaires, make me sick. They think that now they're rich, they can satisfy their egos, alleviate their guilt, by thinking their accidental windfall somehow means they are geniuses, cosmically ordained and therefore eminently qualified to solve the world's problems -- AIDS, loose nukes, illiteracy. They're delusional enough to think that they matter more than others in a larger sense. They think, Now that I've made billions on a seach engine that can locate highly specialized subgenres of kiddy porn at thrice the speed of light, I'm going to teach the world to read. When in truth they're rewriting history to say that their original business models, the ones that made them obscenely rich, were driven not by greed and hubris but by some larger calling to transform the world."William Faulkner once instructed that good fiction is "about the human heart in conflict with itself." Author James P Othmer seemingly knows this writerly commandment especially well. Othmer conflates the personal and professional conflicts that rage in the heart of his protagonist, Yates (the eponymous Futurist) with his, and our, attempt at understanding "why they hate us (Americans)."
It has been a long, long while since I devoured a novel as voraciously as I did The Futurist. Its sheer exuberance, its epigrammatic style, and its wit and irreverence are a hoot! More to the point, however: I believe you would enjoy this novel every bit as much as I did. And still do. Yes, it is that memorable.
Check it out!
-- David M Gordon / The Deipnosophist