How anyone finished this book is beyond me. Stream-of-consciousness modernism became a literary cliche many decades ago, but it still survives to provide swanky intellectual cover for authors like Krell, who are unable to tell a compelling story. The flouting of sexual taboo is another tedious literary cliche, yet Krell attempts to use it as his meal ticket, with ridiculous effect: see his speculations about young Nietzsche sitting on his father's lap during a piano lesson and feeling an erection in Daddy's pants. Is this "novel" vile or simply ludicrous? Don't waste your time or money trying to decide which.