I guess this book didn't quite land the way I think it should've, but so so much of it was exceptional. Currie's play with fiction and memoir really tapped into something important. He skillfully evoked David Foster Wallace and James Frey chastising both while simultaneously embracing both. He lauded Vonnegut and Nicholas Sparks and made me believe it all. Here was a book unencumbered by fear of being marked lowbrow that was in fact gracefully subtle and full of good art.