I found myself thinking about this book again recently. It's been about fifteen years since I read it; it was for one of my last formal English courses, and everyone was reading a different book. (I remember one other person chose Neverwhere. If only I could have been so lucky.)
I understand some people are deeply fond of this book. However, it is probably the most inscrutable novel I ever read during my academic career, and probably a strong candidate for one of the worst books I ever managed to force myself through.
I do kind of like the book's message, or at least what I interpreted of it. The protagonist was someone so caught up in his own navel-gazing introspection, so delighted with his colorful theories of self, that he had stopped seeing life for what it was. Except he also had a dream sequence where he chased after Mozart for possession of a tiny sculpture of a woman's leg, so maybe I missed the point entirely.
A slow, analog alternative to the internet
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