This was far from a page-turner (particularly due to the fact that it literally has no plot) but definitely had some redeeming characteristics. Ferlinghetti added in certain phrases and themes throughout the book (fourth person singular, a piece of string, cigarette-lightbulbs, Piblokto madness, etc.) which gave an interesting déjà vu feeling – which is something I believe the narrator is supposed to be feeling to a degree and it is transferred very well to the reader. I found myself wondering at several points if I had read ahead, and I honestly am not sure whether it was me or the author’s repetition of certain phrases.

One other thing I liked was occasionally when the narrator would go on a particularly bizarre train of thought, he would sometimes add a phrase like “Or so I imagined, so I thought” or similar which I found to be an interesting technique for two reasons. For one, I felt that it cemented the relationship between the reader and the narrator to a degree in that we were not always expected to believe his outlandish yarns, but rather realize that they were metaphors or daydreams or hallucinations. Secondly, it made the instances in which he did not use this verbiage seem like “well he didn’t say he was dreaming this time, so perhaps it was real” – kind of a reverse Boy Who Called Wolf.

My main qualm is that I feel that the experimental style did not pair particularly well with the length and I found it somewhat arduous to get through the whole thing. Ferlinghetti is first and foremost a poet and while I can see the appeal in certain aspects of this book, I would think he should stick to poetry.

I’m about 1/3 through and while certain passages will get me excited, as far as I can tell there’s really no plot whatsoever, which means there’s very little forward momentum. Which is okay, but it seems like 150+ pages is a bit long for that kind of thing.

My favorite passage so far is as follows (page 29):

The rain fell down in loose swirling skeins, the kind a child makes with string between his fingers. The string was black and fell tangled like a shadow of itself, dissolving into puddles that covered the Place Montparnasse in front of the station like backless mirrors from which the gray quicksilver of light still drained.