Such an unsettling book. One that demanded more from my senses, emotions, thoughts than I ever expected it would. It preoccupied me, it made me feel sick, it taught me, it even entertained me at times, but rarely. It was not that kind of book, not the kind you can read for entertainment or enlightment alone. Rather it is a book that demands, that contorts, that expands and contracts your heart til it cracks. A book where the author demands the reader pay the price of turning the page.

In [a:Ethan Canin|50743|Ethan Canin|http://www.goodreads.com/images/nophoto/nophoto-U-50x66.jpg]'s review on NPR he said: "I like my masterpieces straight up. It's 640 pages without a literary trick. NO experimentation with prose. No stream of consciousness. Just page after page of the most harrowing and vivid writing . . . I first came upon this book nearly a decade ago; it moved me as deeply as anything I'd ever read."

How many books make that claim on the reader? This one does.