I wanted to like this book, and to finish it (to see if anything like the dimmest effort to find meaning in experience would emerge) .
But I was always tied to the narrator who truly is an idiot, recording sequential isolated perceptions and thoughts (some quite witty and hip, admittedly) one by one by one.
We are supposed to believe she was admitted to Harvard, without the least evidence to prove why that could be. We are supposed to believe she is that disconnected from the national experience but she WAS BORN IN NEW JERSEY! We are supposed to believe she never had a sexual feeling until, at 19, she turned a European shower head on her vagina in Hungary. We are asked to put up with her endless, unfounded obsession with another nerd who is less conscious than her...

It made me sad that the author invoked Dostoevsky’s deeply philosophical and heartfelt novel. I gave up about 2/3 or 3/4 of the way through

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