There are a lot of footnotes in this book. And that equates to a chronic self-consciousness. What you might expect from an auto-biography after all. But then many autobiographies are written by ghost writers nowadays.
I loved and recoiled at times from his triumphant use of English, his unashamed pride in his vocabulary and the perfection with which the specific word is used for the specific context. There is no fudging.
It’s dense but it’s also witty and by the end of the first 2/3 of the book (which I think is his take on the stream of consciousness novel – in a world which acknowledges that the stream of consciousness has been proved to be too darn difficult to properly process) we have all the tools to be fully immersed in his account of his father’s death. We have the Experience.
Read if you are looking to stretch your brain and you are sick of books that don’t demand more of you.
Don’t read if you’re feeling tired.