I just couldn't get into this book. Partly to blame is that I was reading some really excellent books at the same time, and it's hard for a book to overcome some really excellent writing such as Murakami and Gaddis. No, I wasn't thrown by the run-on sentences and dialog, it's just that I felt the narrative continually looped back upon itself self-referentially, but for little reason. If you tell me how a man feels, telling me four more times isn't going to increase the penetration of the concept. I'll either have gotten it, or I won't. And no, we're not speaking of Rashomon-like repetition with a point, just telling me twice, like a grandfather. It's not bad, nor badly written, and the translation won what seems a well-deserved prize. It just wasn't a book for me. Others will greatly enjoy it. So I cannot find fault with how the artist got to his destination, he did so fully in command of his resources. I just didn't like the destination or scenery.