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reba_reads_books's review
3.0
Easily one of the weirdest books I've ever read, billed as a "literary graphic novel". Someone could probably write a master's thesis on this book, so it's probably for critics. I didn't connect with most of it, but some of the sections were strangely affecting. Will send it to my art friend and see what he thinks.
robin_dh's review against another edition
adventurous
challenging
funny
lighthearted
mysterious
reflective
relaxing
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
4.0
savannahbeatty20's review against another edition
dark
emotional
funny
hopeful
mysterious
relaxing
sad
medium-paced
nathansnook's review
3.0
READING VLOG
Lmao finished this in one sitting hidden in the back of a work meeting and while on three packets of Black Kanu mix-coffee.
Trippy. Delusional. Funny.
Our narrator's $1-a-month apartment has many rooms, halls thats stretch, and roommates he's never seen before. Anxiety is there, right there, under the floorboards and we don't even know it. There are shapes I can't make out, skimmed over, pages flipped back to double-check what I saw was what I saw.
In the end, I don't even know what I saw. Our narrator, was he human? Was he there at all? Was a part of the chaotic mosaic we call life, we call living, or, really, existing, right there in the pages?
Time is coming to a close. The new year approaches. Who is there to make sense of all my pieces? To sort them out? To understand what I've done was right? Or wrong? Is my very existence valid? Or have I spent these few months invalidating my own experience?
Lmao finished this in one sitting hidden in the back of a work meeting and while on three packets of Black Kanu mix-coffee.
Trippy. Delusional. Funny.
Our narrator's $1-a-month apartment has many rooms, halls thats stretch, and roommates he's never seen before. Anxiety is there, right there, under the floorboards and we don't even know it. There are shapes I can't make out, skimmed over, pages flipped back to double-check what I saw was what I saw.
In the end, I don't even know what I saw. Our narrator, was he human? Was he there at all? Was a part of the chaotic mosaic we call life, we call living, or, really, existing, right there in the pages?
Time is coming to a close. The new year approaches. Who is there to make sense of all my pieces? To sort them out? To understand what I've done was right? Or wrong? Is my very existence valid? Or have I spent these few months invalidating my own experience?
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