Some of the best fictions resemble labyrinths: they drop readers into a circuitous story, then challenge readers to find a way out. So it goes for The Impossibly, a viciously entertaining maze of a novel that reads like Beckett’s brink-of-nonsense prose crossed with David Lynch’s postmodern acid noirs. The narrator works for something called “the organization,” a shadowy body that seems to control his city and regularly sends him terse commands that he must decipher as best he can and carry out. (One example: “Dear Sir, Do not, under any circumstances.”) However, after an odd vacation with a woman and a botched assignment, the narrator falls into paranoia — is the organization now targeting him? Things only become murkier as Hunt delves ever deeper into his protagonist’s bewildered, perhaps schizophrenic consciousness, yet as the confusion builds Hunt’s prose only becomes stronger. Does the narrator constantly contradict himself? Yes. Does he at one point split into two people, one walking behind the other? Yes, again. But does this book ever lose its intriguing edge? No. Hunt’s inventiveness is such that each episode, no matter how nonsensical, demands your attention and makes you want to figure out how it all fits together. Perhaps it all does, or perhaps it is as inconsistent at the narrator’s surely damaged mind — it doesn’t much matter in this book that you’ll want to listen to twice.