“Pains me to say I’m quitting this one.
Sorry, I’m about halfway and don’t know what the fuck is going on.
There’s a guy who’s looking for a guy, who is maybe two guys, or maybe the one guy sort of trained the other guy, and there’s a girl, who’s maybe dead and maybe not dead. Oh, and the guy looking for the guy keeps getting mistaken for the guy he’s looking for. And he’s been arrested, I think, maybe twice, but I’m not totally clear on that. Pills, something with trees. Desecrated graves and also kids kidnapped during a tornado. Maybe it becomes clear how this all fits by the end, but I don’t think I’m willing to wait that long.
It feels like a failure on my part, but I’m just not excited to get back in, crack the cover and be confused again and again.
There’s some great writing in here, some good inner monologue stuff, but I just can’t hang with it. It’s not something I can hang with for 400+ pages.
I respect that this book almost actively doesn’t give a fuck if you can follow it, and maybe there was a time in my life where I was ready for that. As I’ve aged, clarity has become the most important thing to me in books. If I can see the scene, feel the sensations, and understand a complex situation, I’m happier than I am trying to piece something together.
I respect that this book almost demands you read it a certain way, probably in a binge over a couple days straight. But that’s just not the way my life works these days, and I don’t think I can interact with this story the way that you have to.
In another life, another time, and another place, I suppose. “