C. Robert Cargill’s Dreams and Shadows: A book I was supposed to review and couldn’t finish

When I resigned the task of reviewing it as beyond my capacities, this is what I said:

“I have tried alcohol and caffeine and locking myself in a mostly-empty room, but some quality of Cargill’s writing repulses me – not with loathing (although there has at points been some of that) but with utter indifference. It is not a technically incompetent novel – incompetent novels can be entertainingly bad – but one that in the fifty pages I have clawed my way through has proven eye-bleedingly boring, smug, full of self-regard and above all prosily complacent. Yet in so indifferent a fashion I can’t even work up a good bilious rage to carry me through, and bleed out rather instead in dull and tedious resentment.”