I'd like a formal apology on behalf of C.S. Lewis, Roald Dahl, and all the other authors offended by being compared to this book.
For the first couple chapters, there were no quotation marks, no indentations, nothing to indicate a transition or to separate spoken words from the massive blocks of text, some spanning two whole pages. (This lack of new paragraphs continued even when the author suddenly remembered what quotation marks were.)
Even without the atrocious punctuation (or lack thereof), I continuously set the book aside and wondered how the hell this affront to god and the English language managed to get published.
The plot, while intriguing at first, made no sense, and, unlike any comprehensible narrative, made less and less sense as the story progressed.
It felt like the author took his notes app, dumped it into a blank document, and submitted it to his publisher without giving it a cursory glance.
Questionable implications of interesting choices aside, the "deep" aspects of the book were laughable. It was the kind of "fake deep" that feels like the author tried to be philosophical, but whose knowledge of philosophy extends to the belief that Socrates is a fancy name for a soccer jersey.