I’ve just read this remarkable novel in one sitting – a retrocausal self-history in the real-time of regathering (mis)memory while living one’s accumulating future. A scene towards its ending sadly gave me the sense – quite unaccountably – of a painting by Picasso.
This novel is a masterpiece of vexatious horror, of unforgiving remorse, of a protagonist who ends up at roughly the age I am now – but with real-time’s face turned inward so as to feast its blushes upon the strength of my pulse.
An equation I’m still trying to balance. Yet a perfect puzzle from still accumulating hindsight. All pulses end some time.