When I finished reading this dismal book, I was left wondering if Banks had just cranked it out as a Contractual Obligation. I normally like Banks' books -- I'm particularly fond of The Crow Road, amongst his other more popular works -- but this is dire. From cold beginning to mean-spirited close, it seems to mock the reader throughout.
I don't necessarily need my reading to be happy affairs, but in this case it's almost as if Banks was battling a depression at the time and this was his way of lashing out at his readers -- particularly the very ending.
In its favour, it has brevity -- it shouldn't take up much of your time if you do feel like reading it; but then, you have so much more to do with your time. If you do feel the need to read something short, Scottish and philosophical you could do worse than Poor Things by Alasdair Gray or Pfitz by Andrew Crumey.