Totally effing great. I can't contain my love for this novel: it's messy, sprawling, difficult, but completely satisfying, even with its frustrating lack of narrative coherence. At its center are two aimless, godless poets in Mexico, flawed by their youth and documented (mostly peripherally) by at least fifty different narrative voices. And yet, we never really get a full picture of their characters. It's not just their story, but the story of adolescence fading and faith in words and art (what else is there?) and death and darkness and messy sexual escapades and time passing into the future: a great expanse of uncertainty and trepidation. The experience of reading this novel is like watching people through a frame that keeps changing perspective, so that you never see what's going on from the inside out but gradually you get a full picture: not just of the subject but also of the landscape-- Mexico, Latin America, Europe, the 70s, the 20s, and into the present, where we might finally have a chance of understanding our roots. And maybe our selves.