Satire here goes way over the top, across the line, over-sarcastic. There were two pages discussing the penile length of many characters and even non-characters. Why? For effect, I know, but come on, enough is enough. By the end of the book I just wanted it to be over. I much prefer how Russian authors commit their characters to insanity while allowing the reader to remain sane.
Postmodern perhaps, thinking now of similar traits in 1970s "classical" music. Gyorgy Ligeti often leaves me wanting something more solid and less repetitive to grab on to. Despite the uncomfortable sense I have while reading Vonnegut or listening to Ligeti, I cannot deny the power of their works, emotive in how they disturb.
There were many self reflective parts, about being an author, writing and what it means to be an artist. This reminds me of Voltaire and Twain. Self critical and skeptical of mainstream critical analysis. Or maybe they all just hate critics...
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