Matthew Rasnake

Think of your most eccentric uncle, or the most socially maladjusted person you've ever known, multiply their idiosyncrasies by a factor of about 15, and you'll end up in the vicinity of literally every character in this book. I nearly stopped reading about 10% of the way in, because there just seemed no end to the weird, awkward characterization, but there was just enough almost interesting sci-fi ideation going on that I toughed it out. "And boy, I'm glad I did!" You might now expect me to say...

But I won't.

I made it through the book, which seemed to essentially be a disjointed shadow play about a collective descent into madness—people living in holes, holes within holes, books with no words, projects with no purpose, an almost clinical focus on the grotesqueries of bodies, secretions, and sex (organs and acts), and an exceptionally large amount of discussions of bat guano—only to finally end with a maybe eclipse and... I'm not even sure what.

The book had a very clear if awkward intention at the beginning that went largely unfulfilled and which it even ended up actively dismissing by the end. I, honestly, am not sure what the point of the book was, other than to display the author's unique and uncommon facility with description of place and character. I suppose that's what kept me hanging on... the artistry was clear and captivating, even if largely incoherent.

I listened to this as an audiobook, and the narrator was quite good, but this is one of those books where I'm left wondering if too much (context, focus, physicality?) was lost in the move from the page to the voice. I don't *think* that's the issue, I think it's just that this book is trying to be or do something specific, and I'm just not here for whatever that is.