By beckoning to the reader with quite such a profoundly searching question, author Rand sets up some pretty lofty expectations. However, as events progress, it becomes quite abundantly clear that we are in for a spectacularly variable piece of literature. By the time I had reached page 5, I couldn't help but feel that the refreshingly avant-garde sense of potency had begun to fade, leaving things to degenerate into little more than a mind-numbing drawl. Events began to meander, with little sense of direction or overarching structural cohesion. Intermittently, I might find myself becoming convinced that I had begun to detect a trace of of method among the madness. However, time after time, such expectations were to be confounded- by the most deviously ingenious of subversions. As a case in point, let's have a look at the concluding paragraph to the penultimate page:
Rest assured that I shall not divulge precisely what was to transpire upon that final page, but I can tell you that the conclusion left me open-mouthed and goggle-eyed with bemusement. Had I just encountered a profound statement about the aleatoric structure of the universe and the fleeting nature of life? Was the entire final page the result of a perversely improbable misprint? Or had the author simply been permitted to watch one David Lynch film too many? Ultimately, this is a work that raises more questions than it has answers to.