This reminds me somewhat of Bret Easton Ellis' Less Than Zero, which I did not like at all. Caicedo's novel is more entertaining, simply because the prose is substantially better (although I did read it in translation, which probably mutes the effect). I really did enjoy the prose, and even though I know nothing about dance and Latin American music from the 1970s - or even, let's be honest, from now - I found the setting and the emphasis on music compelling.

As with all the other drug-fueled self-obsessive teens of this type of story, though, I don't give a damn about the characters. They're all so melodramatic, and even Caicedo's prose can't make Maria any less tiresome. It could be that I'm just old, but honestly, even when I was her age she would have annoyed the shit out of me. I'm more interested in the fact that, according to the introduction, Caicedo killed himself the day he received his author copies. I suppose that's one way not to have to deal with critics... which seems a little harsh, but a hundred and fifty pages of Maria has left me replete with overdoses.