Comment, not review: I'm not sure I'm liking this early on and I've kinda run out of steam but the language is intense, hypnotic, hallucinatory, disjointed. Imagine Burroughs in his most addicted time now writing as a meth addicted teenage girl runaway and you start to get the shape.
I stalled on reading this, wanting to like it more than I did so far, and, frankly, it's very unusual for me not to plow through a book to its bitter end, regardless of the effort or chorefulness of the task.
On the whole, some very lovely language throughout, some episodic nightmarishness, but a grueling disconnectedness and a wandering thread that kept me from returning after many multiple-day lulls.
That's no way to read a book. Could I have read it cover to cover if laid up in traction in some idyllic Swiss chalet? Quite possibly. Can I read it betwixt papers and grading and childcare and every other time press on me now? Quite honestly, no. Not today.
Mind you, if you have longer reading times and a stronger ability at piercing this book's veil of delirium, your mileage may infinitely vary.