The sparsest expression of Dennis Cooper’s Bresson-influenced minimalist aesthetic, as well as his deepest and most unmediated foray into the troubled adolescent male psyche: none of the formal artifice or playful structuring of the George Miles Cycle to be found in this one, folks, just a direct and scary outpouring of fractured impressions from Larry’s fucked-up mind. Confusion is the dominating theme here, the principle not only of the obscure, recursive narrative drive and gaps in scene sequence, but of the constant and distressingly ambiguous destabilization of Larry’s interrelationships (brother or lover? straight or gay? guilty or not guilty? dead or alive?), reflected in his tortured syntax and the virtual interchangeability of bland boy names (Larry, Jim, Pete, Gilman, Will, Tran) and faceless figures. The only sure thing is death. This is all unbelievably frightening—probably the most frightening work in Cooper’s oeuvre, which is really saying something if you’ve read even one of his other novels—and, speaking from experience, I don’t recommend reading it before bed or if you’re having fits of insomnia (it wound up completely informing the texture of my nightmares), unless, like me, you’re into that sort of thing. Of course, codependent with the dread, this is also just extremely, painfully tragic, a tragedy rooted in inexpressible empathy for the suffering of this deeply mixed-up kid. In finishing this I’ve finished all of Dennis Cooper’s published novels, and while that makes me sad on some level, I’m gratified in the knowledge that I inadvertently ended on one of his very best.