When I've dropped acid in the past I always tend to get a feeling of divine awe at the beauty of the world haunted by an inescapable, nauseating anxiety that some weird cosmic joker is playing a trick on me. This book feels similar. After the accounts of street fights and graffiti bombing, when the adrenaline is purged from the body, Nov's story of late 90s New York is always a little sickly, always a little dopesick.
Is graffiti art? I don't know. But also, yes, without a doubt. And it's illegal and no one really makes money from it (except for the people who Nov would probably call sellouts who get paid to throw up big medium-ugly murals) which makes it even more interesting. Someone more well read on art theory could probably write a lot about how graffiti calls into question claims of property, ownership of public space, acceptable hegemonic taste vs vernacular art, etc. Is it vandalism? Probably. Banksy makes millions off of it but I don't think he ever says anything the New York Times would grit their teeth at publishing.
Nov really wants to make it a point that he's breaking out of something. He thinks, and I would agree with him, that he knows something that a lot of other people don't or at least can't quite articulate and much of his pain is in seeing a broken society and having his hands tied to do anything about it. And so he wants to get in your face about it, get in the face of society and the police and just shout at you until you understand and really listen to him. Underneath all the mean mugging and empty 40z you can tell there's a really sensitive guy who wants to make a difference. My friend whose more plugged into the New York graf scene told me Brown is a teacher or something now, and if that's the case I think he'd be one of the best.