"A screaming comes across the sky." Opening line to a truly mesmerizing, infinitely detailed book. And I mean infinitely as in "Moving towards in infinity through means of theoretical calculus that eventually brings you to the point in which your present and past selves collide and you exist at all points in the universe for one second." Worth the read simply for that and the Adenoid subdued in a man's dreams with buckets of cocaine.
Imagine Rashomon, except told literally through the many perspectives of so many disparate and destructive characters. It's unbelievably confusing at first, and then harrowing as things become clearer and clearer.
Joyce was an absolute master. That's all I can really say about this book right now, since it's staggeringly intricate and beautiful.
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