I bought this because I was interested in reading Anastas's recent memoir, Too Good to Be True, but I thought that, before reading his personal story, I should take the time read his most famous novel. Wow, am I sorry I did. A narrator who's even more loathsome than he's clearly intended to be—misogynist, judgmental, dull. A relentlessly one-note, droning monologue. The other characters sketchily drawn—which is a shame, because they all seem more interesting than the narrator.
I tried approaching this in a couple of ways. First, I tried to see the narrator as an emblem of Generation X, the supposed "slacker" generation. Yet if slackers really did exist and were not just a media creation, I think they felt as they did because they thought the world had failed their ideals. This narrator doesn't have any ideals, except for always wanting to be with a beautiful woman even as he wanders around unshowered.
Then I tried to tell myself that such a listless narrative is exactly what an underachiever would write, but honestly, an actual underachiever probably wouldn't bother to write down his story anyway, so that didn't work. It certainly didn't make the book any less excruciating.
At a certain point, the narrator tries to write an academic article that explores underachievers, and an excerpt of this article is included. This is clearly the author's attempt to explain why the narrator, and the narrative, are the way they are. It's interesting in a way, but none of it comes through in the actual character or narrative, so ultimately it's both clumsy and futile.
Perhaps the question is whether we can care about a narrator enough to read an entire book about him, when he gives us no actual reason to care about him. The answer is: we can probably make it through 144 pages, but no more than that, and even that will make us resentful.