This was a strange book that grew on me. The dialect and (shall we say?) colloquialisms of the language were difficult. The convoluted plotting was difficult. Most importantly, I was never confident that Sammy--protagonist, narrator, petty criminal, dim bulb Everyman--was telling the truth about his mysterious blindness, his girlfriend who disappeared, the political activities of the friends he was mixed up with, or what he'd been up to during his drinking binge while he was supposedly blacked out. I guess I was just as blind as he was, although I spent a whole lot of time searching for clues among his rambling narrative and hoping the last few pages would produce a revelation in which all would become clear.
By the end, I felt sad that Sammy couldn't seem to salvage his relationship with his son or come to any other resolution about anything. We were both clueless together.
For more details about this reading experience, check out my review at Hotchpot Cafe.
I know what you mean about searching for clues, and wondering whether Sammy's narrative was truthful. This was a very unusual book; I didn't think it was great, but I enjoyed it. And I think I enjoyed primarily because of its uniqueness.
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