As the author/narrator says, "this is a horizontal story, told vertically" and I think I have vertigo. I can tell it was meant to be profound--poetic and layered, but I'm not familiar enough with the poets mentioned or enamored enough of philosophical debates to see all the layers. The result for us uninitiated is sort of like that feeling when you hear someone you have a vague yet definite dislike for is in the hospital--I know what I'm supposed to feel and can perform the motions, but internally I am saying "boy, I do not like you. Why don't I like you?"

CONTENT WARNING: (no actual spoilers, just a list of topics)

Spoiler

infidelity, casual racism, misogyny, infidelity, drugging a drink.

Things that were, I dunno, I guess worth experiencing:

-The atmosphere. It's a trippy fever dream of a story, a sort of ongoing babble of scattered thoughts all centered on but skittering away from some all important concept.

-Some of the prose. Sometimes the prose felt beautiful and alive, and that was enjoyable.

-The otherness. It was a sort of neat, sideways glance at a world very unlike mine, though very close by it.

-The thoughts about language. As a metaphor for the unpredictability of communication and translation, it was at least interesting.

Things that ticked me off:

-Pick what you are, book. If it's poetry, it's unsatisfyingly story-like and banal. If it's a story, it's aggravatingly unfinished and ill-defined. I could feel it was meant to sweep me up and carry me along like that dream it emulates, or like that instant of recognition in a crowd that couldn't contain a friend. Instead it felt more like going to your small hometown on break, seeing how the years have hit it, hoping you don't run into anyone you knew.

-The characters. All of them were unreliable narrators, but the sort whose lies and bravado I neither understood nor empathized with. They were all mediocre people standing in place of some great idea that I couldn't attach to them because I hated their lies and their machisimo and their cowardice.

-The language. Repetitive like poetry but without the significance for me. Seriously, I think I'm the walking proof of the concept of this book because I read and understood all the words and am left with nothing.

-The weaving of stories. Normally I just love multiple POV books that spiral each other. I just don't think this one was structured the way I needed it to be. It could have been eerie and fae, but instead felt abrupt and a bit too self-conscious of itself.

A coworker recommended this to me, and I'd be interested in the author's actual poetry, but as an experiment, especially coming off of a lyrical slice of life book that I adored, I fell and skinned my literary knee on the sharp, bacterial edges of this book. If you love Ezra Pound and are more well-versed in modern poetry or Mexican literature, perhaps this would hold more to capture your imagination and heart.