there is nothing in this for me, so i gave myself permission not to finish it. i gave it the benefit of the doubt for just under half its length. it's not even a novel, it's just disconnected vignets, in the style of anais nin, and written from a very ugly perspective. the dust jacket alluded to celine and kafka and conrad and nabakov. i see none of them here. it's more like brett easton ellis if he had written erotica. it's erotica for sociopaths.