I'm sure Mr. Robbins believes this novel is brilliant. In quieter moments, while staring into the bathroom mirror, I'm sure he must consider his allusions to Nabokov and Joyce as evidence of his great company of writers. Here's the thing though, while reading this novel, admittedly my first by this author, I couldn't shake the sinking feeling that I was reading a lot of self-congratulatory crap from a man who thinks he is smarter than he actually is and who has such a dedicated base of readers that he doesn't even have to try... or edit. I can forgive a novel for being loquacious, wandering, unfortunately conceived, and self-absorbed. I loved My Struggle, after all. I can't forgive a book that is all of these things and yet has no ideas to offer.

This book is like adult contemporary music, clearly popular but not for me.