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I honestly don’t know where to begin with this book -- other than by telling you that just thinking about it makes my head spin. Let me try to explain the story a little bit, and maybe you’ll understand.
It’s about an 18-year-old kid named Bud. Bud’s the grandson of a famous detective novelist and the son of a man who spied on movie stars for a living (before dying under the foot of a hippo) and a monstrous woman who preaches on television. After Bud shoots his mother’s assistant, he takes to the road to escape -- and that’s when he meets Sylvia Cushman, a woman twice his age who lets him come along for the ride. He becomes obsessed with the bizarre woman (and her favorite poet, Emily Dickinson). And when their time together is over, Bud continues on to New England, in search of Emily -- and Sylvia’s son. Somehow, he becomes wrapped up in the lives of Sylvia, her young son who’s allergic to pretty much everything, and her tyrannical husband whose ears amplify the slightest sound, forcing them to live in a padded home (and let's not even talk about her husband's job or what he does to poor, defenseless animals). Bud’s obsession drives him to follow Sylvia around the country -- and somehow, in there somewhere, he learns something about… something. But I’m not sure what. Therein lies the problem.
This book is dizzying -- but that’s not really the problem. The problem is that it’s pointlessly dizzying. Or perhaps there’s a point -- one that only the author really understands. Whatever the case, I wanted to put this book away for good after the first few pages. I only continued reading because I had a long flight ahead of me, and it was the only book in my carry-on. But it didn’t excite me -- nor did it really grab my attention. This one’s on its way to the used bookstore.
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