There is I think probably a thread of brilliance that winds its way though this novel - but I was rarely quite able to grasp it. I am a bit suspicious of the translation; the writing has a kind of wet, glistening consonance that is either amateurish or a deliberate artistic style that emboldens the titillatory corporeal aspects of the book that I enjoy the least. The flatulence, death and shit comprise a blackly humorous take on the occasionally horrifying events that I suppose may be considered provocative or at least honest, but that reads to me more as just unnecessarily edgy.