newland archer does not exist.

he likes to think he does. in brief moments of his life, he almost convinces himself he does. but his resolve is weak. he is, by nature, a contemplative man: a man of ideas, a man of theories, perhaps even a theoretical man in the sense that there is nothing really real about him.

newland archer is the ideal man. the ideal man does not exist. ergo, newland archer does not exist.

this novel is so utterly depressing. we follow along a hollow cardboard man try to fool himself into thinking he's a real boy only to falter: once, twice, innumerable times. much more capable people run around him in circles while he's stuck, brooding on his own misery and his angst. life passes him by, and he wants to take it, but he can never have the courage to actually reach out and take the step that would turn him into a human being of flesh and blood, instead staying as a facsimile of what a person looks and acts and thinks like.

and that costs him everything: the world, his inner self, real life as we know it.

in conclusion? riveting stuff.