I read lots of David Foster when I was an undergrad, but this is the first of his books I've read in years. The last forty or so pages are great- funny, gripping, absurd and readable. But it takes an awfully long time to get through the first three quarters of the thing, combining as it does Pynchon-esque conspiracy/paranoia/detective story antics with a wonderfully drawn narrator whose style is denser and less comprehensible than Conrad's Marlow. It's certainly worth a read: Foster's attention to the sound of the words he's writing, his absurd Trollopian character names, and the outright fun of it all really are very enjoyable. I just wish there was a little less ultra-specific description. ( )