I simultaneously agree with, and see what is being communicated to the reader about immigration, assimilation, micro aggressions, racism; essentially negotiating every single situation at a level removed from personhood in an effort to not feel your identity is as violated when the inevitable penetration of gaze, and other types of encroachment, move in skin-to-skin… And still, as a reader, be absolutely, constantly aware of how unenjoyable the reading experience was because of that stylistic and structural choice.

Never being fully embodied and having every point filed down to the equivalent of round peg and square hole, see how they fit together? How messed up is it that this is that and that is this and when they fit they’re so poorly machined together they bump and scrape and require significant force to become one object and later disentangle!

I guess what I’m saying is: Every point in a solipsistic narrative feels like it’s too transparent and self aware, because the only that feels real is the experience. That’s kind of the point of the Autofiction written as such; yet it is also disembodied and intelligent in its pointing out of caricatures being so tired they dwell in every moment of life. Yet that’s surrealism, isn’t it?

Why blunt poignant points and sometimes brilliant specificity and description? The point of the disassociation doesn’t feel as if it’s being made nearly as well because of the incongruent nature of the vignettes. Rather than balance it is far weighted to one side. The Point Being Made. I get it. My god, how could you not? There’s nothing as interesting as hammer presented while we stare at a nail for 100 pages.