Narrative easing out of dense fog. Or a camera focusing, slowly, from queasy blur. Disjointed run-ons. Description without object. Unsteady perspective: a character can recur in first person, second person, third person. Even in this reeling high modernist fashion, the five principle characters are warmly, believably rendered, all with interesting personal histories and psychology. Their voices can run together a bit in Oates' stream-of-consciousness, but I wasn't especially bothered. The central story, beneath all the embellishment, is a fairly simple one of a lonely middle-aged man who finds himself infatuated (self-destructively?) with a teenage girl, and so evoked bits of American Beauty and Ghostworld. But it is convincing conveyed here, and what can I say, I'm a sucker for this kind of embellishment (exactly the embellishment the other reviewers here apparently hated) and the prose is often beautiful. I wonder why this book seems to have fallen through the cracks. Perhaps Oates other work from this era is better -- or at least more approachable.
I bought this on a whim, purely on the basis of the eerie evocative title and the fact I've never read anything from Oates besides scattered more recent short stories, and I was not disappointed.