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What I really dug about this book was the sense of diminishment it left me with: the diminishment of Osama as a man; the diminishment of Osama as an idea; the diminishment of the attack on the WTC; the diminishment of terrorism in general; the diminishment of the US government and its war machine; the diminishment of violence and our rationalized motivations for violence; the diminishment of humanity; the diminishment of our own little tragedies. And it did this while celebrating knowledge and love.

It told its strange tale of afterlife in a string of pseudo-short stories that massed together into a novel, all with some wonderful imagery. Yet it was littered with similes that began to smell like trash in a steaming, tropical landfill (exactly!). It was interesting, but I could put it down and forget about it for days. I wanted it to be better. It could have been so much worse. I think I'd rather read the novels in the novel than what we were given as the novel itself. And I wish I cared more.