PanKismet MagazineThis new novel reads like an aftershock, images of fireworks looping on a screen, announcing nothing ... Pynchon contends with a culture that has caught up to him ... Dense and mostly pleasureless prose ... Pynchon’s willingness to introduce and abandon dozens of plotlines may have been a mark of sophistication in the 1970s, but to my screen-addled subjectivity, it reads as indifference ... A writerly novel—a slow, labyrinthian satire packed with back alleys and digressions, with none of the shock-jocking or narrative immediacy on offer from writers like Castro and Castillo ... All the empty calories of genre fiction with none of the sugar rush.
