One can't help feeling that, in creating such a hermetic antihero, Suskind might well be writing about himself - seeing as the reclusive author hasn't since allowed as but few and fragmentary (though brilliant in themselves) glimpses of his psyche, effectively disappearing much like his ill-fated murderer does.
Woods is one hell of a translator (his heaven-sent work on Thomas Mann alone would suffice to call him a literary benefactor of humanity), and this is a book you'll definitely find yourselves returning to, either in thought or by devouring it again and again.
(And although this is neither here nor there, this is the book that made a writer of me - so I can't help loving it to pieces).