I read this for a couple of reasons. One, I’ve been meaning to read Everett since I picked up a copy of “I Am Not Sidney Poitier” (which remains unread on my shelf, though that could soon change). Two, I wanted to know whether the parts of American Fiction I found the weakest (the fawning publishers, the clueless, privileged egotism) were part of the novel. They’re present but not nearly to the same degree.

So, yes, I loved the novel more. Not just because it’s more nuanced, but because it’s brimming with ideas and flourishes that no movie, to be fair, could ever capture. One of those, is Everett not just giving us a taste of “My Pafology/Fuck” (like the movie) but presenting us with the whole bloody novel (it’s really a novella). And it’s magnificent: gripping, page-turning and shocking. Or, to put it another way, it’s a stereotypical black novel — complete with violent, misogynistic and hapless protagonist — that is so lurid, so over-the-top, so “authentic” in its “grittiness” that we can’t help but love it. And, as such, we — not the publishers — become the subject of Everret’s savage satire. We are culpable.

There are other terrific literary elements that exceed the limits of a feature film. Monk’s ideas for stories; bits of absurdist/comedic dialogue between famous artists; a short story where a black protagonist features on a quiz show, asked questions with a higher degree of difficulty than the white contestant. And then there’s Monk losing his identity to Stag R. Leigh (is this the “erasure” suggested by the title?)

The novel fizzes with notions, maybe one too many. For example, American Fiction makes the smart move of removing the thread where Monk discovers that his father had a child with a white woman. That said, a large part of me wished they’d been braver (the filmmakers) and included how Lisa (Monk’s sister) dies. (I won’t say how, but it truly resonates with the current moment). And while Jeffrey Wright is magnificent as Monk, a smaller part of me wishes they’d stuck with the Monk from the novel, who is the younger sibling, not the oldest.

I could go on. Erasure is a vivid, sparkling novel. Everett is a genius, and I need to read more of his work.