In this novel Mr Scott apparently wants to deal with some difficult issues: identity, sexual identity, personal versus general good, family love (or lack of it).
Problem is, he begins it with what looks like an exercise in style, throwing heaps of incredibly complex and ermetic thoughts in a fine but highly convoluted prose, committing what I personally deem to be the first and worst sin for a writer: to forget that literature of any kind has to entertain the reader in the first place.
I guess this complexity is what earns him the praise of many critics, a species known to esteem fiction only if they cannot understand a word of it, but I cannot accept to spend a couple of minutes on a single short sentence simply to understand it. Of course I am not talking about the exquisite device of multiple meanings through which an apparently plain paragraph hides a number of subtle and exciting possibilities of interpretation, I am talking about simply putting the syntax straight.
While I usually prefer neat, fluid, accurate writing, rich in beauty and elegance I have nothing against a well drawn stream of consciousness, as long as I can spend my reading time enjoying truth and depth of thought and not feeling silly and illiterate because I am not sure what all the strange words are all about.
Later on things get better but even though the story is interesting enough and the writing fine, they are not THAT interesting and not THAT fine.
First I could never suspend disbelief. We have four twins, sons to a lunatic with unexplained ESP powers, butchering each other after discovering that one of them is a fake (?), son to someone else. It is not an easy assumption but it could have been interesting if well developped. Here it is not. Everything just sounds strained.
A horror is supposed to have supernatural elements, but we see relatively little horror and many attempts at a rather erratic psychology: we are given no explanation how four loving brothers, allied since childhood against their crazed father, suddenly become so estranged as to distrust each other. We do not see why the fake had to go berserk in the first place. We do not see too many things.
We are not faced with a thrilling masterpiece, nor with an interesting psychological study nor with outstandingly beautiful language.
All in all it seems to me very lame and therefore a waste of time.