Usually when I struggle through an exceptionally long book, I wind up with Stockholm Syndrome. I confuse the elation of finally finishing it with having enjoyed it after all. This was not the case with Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow.
I still barely have a sweet clue as to what I just read. The style, point of view, perspective was all over the map. It felt self-indulgent, with Pynchon trying to prove how shocking and/or witty he could be. It was dull, it was confusing, it was awful.
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