I almost walked away from this book after the first hundred pages. Describing it as pretentious is akin to calling the Atlantic Ocean slightly damp. It's self-indulgent, painfully clever, and unrelentingly experimental -- enough to make you wish he'd stop experimenting for a second and just tell a freaking story. It's so full of post-modern wankery that you wonder what you, as a reader, have to do with it at all: one gets the impression the author expects readers to sort of admire it from afar instead of actually attempting to read it.

It has its oddly compelling moments, but on the whole it's about as exciting as reading a textbook for a post-modern film crit class. The author expects a LOT of effort on the part of the reader, while consistently failing to provide much of a return on that investment.

That having been said, I have to admit that by the time I finished the book, I had developed a grudging respect for it. While I would describe the work as a whole as kind of brilliant, I can't exactly say that I enjoyed reading it or, in good conscience, would recommend it. It's definitely... unique.