DNF at page 57

I wanted to like this book. When I first picked it up, I was reminded of Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49 and Danielewski's House of Leaves. What I got was a lame novel that went nowhere and notes from two characters that read far too much into the text. I also didn't find their personal stories compelling.

This was a great idea in concept, and the book is gorgeous, but I just couldn't care about any of it. As an English major, I was hoping for something much more interesting and playful.