In his new novel, William T. Vollmann riffs on such themes as bigotry, idolatry, gender fluidity, vulnerability, consent, resilience, and love—at length. I think Vollmann is a genius in so many ways, and his depth of compassion is extraordinary. But in this book, I fear the torrent of prose obscures what he’s trying to accomplish. An excerpt from the review:
Two-thirds of the way into the book, after hundreds of pages of tongues gliding, organs throbbing, nipples hardening, bodies rutting, lips opening and mouths guzzling, the narrator invokes a letter — apparently real, addressed to Vollmann from his longtime editor — saying: “To be honest, I do wonder whether some readers will simply tire of, for example, all the climaxing.” To be honest, this reader did. …
With each passing page, I was more likely to groan not from pleasure but from boredom. This applied to the climaxing, but also to the chatter: the gossip, the confessions, the barside bromides, the characters’ ceaseless whining and rehearsals of anxieties and slights. Although eliciting boredom may be the point — look, bonking can be as stultifying as working for the I.R.S.! — it’s not the strongest sell.