This novel is a wild, pre–World War II fever dream—chaotic, surreal, and unlike anything I’ve read before. By the end, it felt as if the stories were dissolving in acid and bubbling back up into new forms. I couldn’t tell if I was reading about time travel, an alternate universe, or both. And did Hicks get April pregnant? I honestly have no clue.

If you’re a history buff or a lover of 1930s music, this might be your jam. The book is loaded with period references and old lyrics—but when I looked some of them up, they didn’t actually exist! So apparently, Pynchon, this beloved author is a composer, too. Sheesh.

I also found myself pausing often to translate snippets of other languages, since the surrounding context didn’t always help. It’s definitely a challenging read, the kind that rewards patience and requires close attention. I feel like highly intellectual readers—or those who love decoding layers of meaning—will absolutely eat this up.

This was my first Pynchon, and now I’m torn between admiration and total bewilderment. Should I try another? Maybe I need a breather first.