That . .. was a Booker Prize winning novel, all right. Yes, yes, each sentence was a work of art. But cripes, what a slog. Nothing HAPPENED. If this book had been the supplemental meidations on planets and interiority and humanity and navel-gazing that enriched a book about aliens and astronauts and politics and rockets and, y'know, PLOT, then it would have been exquisite. But Harvey forgot the plot, and just focused on winning the Booker. And, I guess, like, it worked?