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Title: This isn't exactly a review so much as a short-term exorcism.
Review: This isn't exactly a review so much as a short-term exorcism.I can't tell you what it's about, you would need to read it to find out. I can't tell you if I think it's any good, this isn't really a book so much as it's a series of blank sheets of paper wrapped tighter and tighter around Ms. Lecompte's head until, on the last page, her brain explodes, and the scattershot remnants make up the previous 207 pages of scandalous, frustrating, transcendent text.Hopefully this book will stop me from saying things like how a writer has a "stream-of-consciousness" style. Lecompte is the closest I've seen a writer come to realizing this impossible cliched dream, and it's not a stream, it's more of a flushed toilet of consciousness. I am out of metaphors, which is too bad,because I can't tell you about this book in plain language. The only way I can treat it is by dancing around it like a circus tiger, like a den of plague-ridden medical martyrs.
