This book like listening to an Albert Ayler album or staring at a Jackson Pollock painting. The genius is there to appreciate, it's just not enjoyable. There are some brilliant passages in this book and the fortitude required to write this book is palpable—but so is the endurance to read it.

There are no speech marks to denote dialogue. I hate this literary device. It's cheap and pretentious. Single sentences of questionable merit can drag on for half a page.

There is no protagonist, even though "the kid" is claimed to be so.

There is no story. It is a montage of sun-bleached bones, mutilated corpses, visceral killings, and racist slurs. Anyone born after 1990 will likely need a year in therapy to get over this book. There may as well be a Trigger Warning at the top of every page.

The writing is genius in parts but it's one of the most overrated novels in American fiction.