When I was reading this, I got the impression that the narrator(s) was stuck in her living room on an overcast day, bitter, lonely and twitching the curtains, so it was interesting to learn that Jelinek is severely agoraphobic. The writing draws you in like that.
She's a clever cynic, and I'm not sure there's enough about. Read this book and you fall straight into her fussy, angry prose, but it never feels off-putting, only honest. Everything is anxious, taut and paranoid.
Um... not sure what more I want to say. Just that I thought this was great and it was a hugely surprising new favourite book of mine. If all novels were like this, not a lot of reading would get done, but every once in a while, what an amazing thing to pick up.