Brautigan's final novel is him at his most straight forward and most melancholy, but from a sample of a handful of his novellas devoured with great enthusiasm this feels like his most complete portrait of Americana; his surreality and absurdity toned down by the sadness of an old man looking back at what he concludes was the death of American imagination. It's an absolute pleasure to read, Brautigan in full control of his skills as a storyteller and lover of language, the narrative voice perfect for the tale being told, with plenty of interesting observations of time, place and events that border on the magical realist in the way that fading memories of a way of life almost vanished can often have.