“Millions of these little moments, billions of paranoid thoughts leaking into the thoughts of billions of people all over the world, all of the time. Thank you television, thank you news channels, newspapers and media. This is your gift to us. All in the name of freedom. When we’re children, before we stare into television screens and films showing us dismembered limbs, and cannons firing, when we see something out the corner of our eyes, we bring back rainbows and teddy bears. Until the day someone explains to us what ghosts are, until someone fills our head with things to be afraid of that don’t exist. Until war takes the rainbow out of our mind, and pours in money, greed and consequential human suffering.”
This is typical of the brilliant insights which are buried in this story, buried BY this story, lost in the convolutions of a plot that goes to tortuous lengths to go nowhere. I recognize that the idea is more to map the internal terrain of self-inflicted madness — or the exploration and self-discovery of self-imposed exile, depending on how asymmetrically generous you want to be to this author — but that’s hardly any consolation.
Not to say that the writing doesn’t often dazzle, explode off the page, make merry with the cerebral cortex. In fact, it was the flashes of sheer genius that kept me going. Magnificent metaphors and stellar imagery from corridors of this writer’s brain which I’ve never encountered anywhere before, even among the most heralded of contemporary writers.
My big problem with this book is I didn’t feel anything. Not for the characters. Not for the story. At times, I just wanted it to be over. Like a ten-hour layover stop on the way to some highly anticipated and prized final destination. Not bored, so much as restless.
Granted I was just-barely-often-enough surprised, amused, jarred, angry, hopeful, disappointed, anxious, to push through. So I did push through and finished this novel. Not so much that I wanted to see what would happen in the end, as to see the literary fireworks along the way. And the author did deliver sufficiently, if not munificently. The ending was actually quite profound. Why am I yawning?
This author is a genius on some level. If some combination of discipline, sensitivity to whoever might be reading his work, Adderall, shock therapy, and professional editing were to come into play for future works, I might be there for him, a devotee. Right now he’s not there for me. This is what happens when you write for the walls of a closet but somehow the book gets published.
Anyway . . .
I give this novel five stars for its genius-level composition, iconoclastic bravado, and raw rabid imagination. But enter at your own risk. There are no traffic signals and sometimes the road disappears.