Well, I read this because Tarrantino name drops it as a sort of inspiration for his writing, and claims it is one of his favourite books - reinforcing my thoughts that whilst the man's body of work is superb, his taste in others' is clearly dubious.
It all starts out well and draws you in quite nicely - the main protagonist is a writer just starting out, but with no particular goal, and various shared sentiments with the beat writers he so looks up to, but somewhere in the latter half of the book you can't help wondering why you're still reading it.
The character has become quite dislikable, and there aren't any others to really support him. They come and go in chapters of various length and it all seems rather meaningless.
And by the end it is all just a kind of jumble. He's still not sure what he wants to do, we get a handful more characters shoe-horned in for no rhyme or reason, and his last, supposedly significant action leaves you feeling pretty empty as it's not really a part of the story you cared for. And neither did he. THE PROTAGONIST. If he doesn't care by then, how are we supposed to?