I imagine these folks giving "Mr. Robinson" five stars must be friends with Mr. Antrim; it's a good book, but puh-leeeez! Not five-stars-good. Like his cohorts Eugenides and Moody (and Wallace too, on a bad day), Antrim uses a certain amount of gross-out black humor(?) to separate his work from more mainstream prose. And I'm not complaining; I don't want to read Harlequin Romances. But I read this thing in 1998, years after it was published; and while I still feel a visceral response to people's arms being torn from their sockets; well, also it seems a little tired and juvenile, this kind of "I may have gone to an Ivy League school, but I'm no suburbanite" sort of literary thrashing around. I've already been shocked into numbness, I guess -- maybe Antrim led the pack, but that hardly matters now. I would nominate this as the "Feel Bad Book of the Year". All this violence and misery, and to what end? It's not that funny, really, and it's not saying anything new. All the gal characters are evaluated to that usual "would-I-f*ck-'er?" degree, and the men are the usual Babbitt-esque suburban louts suckin' down their brewskis. Ho hum. That being said, he's an amazing writer, and I imagine that if he gets more interesting things in his head, he could produce a real 5-star novel some day without breaking a sweat.