I received this book as part of LibraryThing's early reviewer program. This is not an easy book to read. I don't think it was the subject matter; I have a doctorate in research psychology, and I can follow the psychoanalytic themes fairly well. This novel is written in the first person, and is highly introspective. This means a lot more telling than showing. The introspection is coming from a protagonist who could have an advanced degree in a Freudian branch of literary criticism. There is enough verbiage that it's sometimes hard to wade through: sometimes I felt like I was at a party where I wasn't understanding the conversation (didn't major in literature at an Ivy League school) or watching a movie that makes a lot of references to hip happenings that I'm too old for. Other times the writing just seemed too obtuse. Now, complex, analytical writing is fine by me--but sometimes I can tough it out, and other times I can't. It's a shame, because buried in the long paragraphs are some gems, like "You become famous, you die, and then people want your recipe for onion soup." Instead, there are lots of quick, breezy allusions, such as "This isn't Pompeii, and she wasn't tubercular. Still, you will insist on calling her Lolita, and I won't try to stop you." I simply don't know what to infer from this. John Banville is easier to read. ( )

At almost half-way through this "book", I find myself wondering what I am reading. About three paragraphs have been readable, the rest is pretentious drivel. Clinton rambles from one story to another. I plan to try and finish this, but enough is enough for now. If it redeems itself, I will revise this review, don't hold your breath. ( )

Many of the reviews for this book focus on the references, and true, it's a very "self-reflexive" narration. The fact the main character is an English professor explains his obsessive referencing to literature, philosophy, and theory. I'm not arguing this is "realistic," only that main character only sees the world in relation to these terms: in short, this is biblio-madness, and if it doesn't resemble a conventional realist narrative, it at least evokes psycho realism. It's a relentless speedy transcript of the neurosis of a man drowning in insecurities, the unquenchable desire for love, and the over-valorizing of the Big Idea. I read the book as a critique of living less in the heart and too much in the mind-- of having translated the mystery of life into a series of academic argumentative positions. In this way, it is a poignant book. For this reason, I think the professorial class will especially enjoy this book. The intensity and compression of this world view is exhausting, and if you're looking for a comparison, some have aptly pointed toward the mania of Hunter S. Thompson as a comparison. I also suggest the later work of William Gaddis.

Ik heb het geprobeerd, echt waar, maar met dit boek kan ik echt helemaal niets. Na ongeveer twintig bladzijden had ik nog steeds geen idee waar het over ging. Ik kon er geen touw aan vastknopen. ( )

I started out liking this book even with all the times I had to look things up or reread bits to make sure I understood what he was getting at. In the end I got bored with it. It was a little obscure in parts which made it difficult to grasp the flow of the story. ( )