It isn't—but it's better than most novel-like objects created by our younger writers, and like them, this one is directly
autobiographical, ironic, and self-referential, concluding with a tiny gesture of hope the author no doubt considers brave given
the vicissitudes he's retailed in prose.
It is a potpourri of young gestures: David Wallace's intricate cataloguing of smart trivia; Rick Moody's detached, incisive
portraiture of white suburban America; Bret Ellis's seen-it-all spiritual fatigue; and a dollop of Michael Chabon's candy-coated,
hope-flavored insight.Read full book review >