Dylan Palmer

Calvino and his imagination is a thing of beauty. I could fly by descriptions of the many cities he had conjured, at times not taking much in but this doesn't mean I wasn't hooked. It has a unique way of gripping and relaxing you, of opening your mind up and for that, Calvino is a master.

A finely crafted novel. It tells a tale of how corruption once set can rot even what seems the hardiest of places that leads to grave consequences. Or does it? Although I enjoyed reading this novel about a third of the way through I thought to my self, what is the pay off here? It felt like I had ascended the peak of the story and was carefully making my way back to base camp for the finale, only to be left wanting when I got there. What was it I wanted? I'm not even sure, but no matter how well written or put together I still felt like I was wanting more from this book. Not in a read on give me a few more pages can't believe this has ended but a oh, is that it?

Nonetheless, I still flew through it and enjoyed it for what it was, even if I was left wanting.

A unforgiving, unrelenting punch-drunk hurricane of a book. It does not treat the readers as if they were born yesterday because why should it? It grips a hold of you and if you don't like the vulgarness then it will happily show you the door. A harsh realisation for sure, but akin to other great American writers who have trodden similar paths, it sets you up for a fantastical experience of the inner and real workings on the underbelly of the USA.

An extremely profound story that twists its dagger over and over again but rewards you with a little bit of that special something.

I thought for the first 150 pages of this book I thought that it was drifting somewhere fresh and new. Soon, I felt let down by the sheer non-sensical shit of it all.

Last few pages were brilliant mind.