Book review: Michael Dirda reviews "The Ask" by Sam Lipsyte

THE ASK

By Sam Lipsyte

Farrar Straus Giroux. 296 pp. $25

Here's Milo Burke, the sad-sack hero of "The Ask," reflecting on artificial intelligence and computers. Maura is his wife:

"Some argued that the creation of artificial intelligence amounted to cruel and unusual punishment. Consciousness was suffering. Why inflict it on a poor machine? I wasn't one of those people, but only because I believed that AI would someday make good on its promise of astonishing robot sex, if not for us, then for our children.

"I was also one of those people who hadn't caught up with the latest social networking site. Maura belonged to most of them. She passed most evenings befriending men who had tried to date-rape her in high school."

Generally, novels make us turn the pages because we want to know what happens next. But with Sam Lipsyte's "The Ask," we turn the pages because we want to know what's going to happen in the next sentence. Here rants become arias, and vulgarity sheer poetry. Lipsyte's masters aren't Messrs. Strunk and White; they're gallows-humored Céline, Hunter S. Thompson at his most gonzo, the great Stanley Elkin.

Although "The Ask" is unquestionably funny, it's by no means essentially comic. Its theme, after all, is loss, often heartbreaking loss. In the opening chapter, Milo is fired from his job as a mediocre fundraiser for a mediocre university in New York. Once he dreamed of becoming a painter; now, approaching 40, he daydreams about his old college days, his misfit housemates and former girlfriends. Maura, whom he adores, no longer likes to be touched by him, and only Bernie, their nearly 4-year-old son, seems to be keeping the little family together.

Listless and drinking too much, Milo is nonetheless suddenly called back to his former job. The immensely wealthy Purdy Stuart -- a major "ask" -- might be willing to endow a building or fund a project, but he insists that Milo be the go-between. Years ago, the two had been uneasy friends in college, for Purdy already exuded the sure confidence that comes with a trust fund and an obvious future in the ruling class. Even back then, Milo wasn't precisely upbeat:

"For a time I wore only heavy, steel-toed boots because I figured if apocalyptic war broke out, sturdy footwear would be a must. Then it dawned on me that the better the boots, the more quickly I would be killed for them. My only shot at survival would be shoeless abjection."

When the two meet for lunch, Purdy is tanned and toned, looking like a million, or rather several hundred million. He's married to a former supermodel named Melinda, a "generically stunning woman." As Milo says:

"There were thousands, or at least several hundred, just like her in this part of the city . . . perfect storms of perfect bones, monuments to tone and hair technology. Around here she was almost ordinary, but you could still picture small towns where men might bludgeon their friends, their fathers, just to run their sun-cracked lips along her calves."