There's a fine line between experimental and unreadable and Vollman, for reasons which are probably personal to me, falls on the unreadable side of the line. I know many people love his prose, and I laud any writer's attempt to push the envelope, but this collection of portraits alternately baffled and bored me. It was only near the end of the volume, when Vollman writes about his Norwegian grandfather that the words came alive for me. Whether that has to do with me or with him, I cannot say.