Expected not to like this and instead I read it faster than I've read anything in ages and had fun the entire time. Wanders a little in the middle--disappointing after the breakneck and gripping beginning--but pulls itself back together for an ending that was cleverer and more satisfying than I thought possible. I think people are maybe trying too hard to make this book an especially profound or groundbreaking treatise on racism when it's not really trying to be. Or I don't know, maybe it's trying to be and failing, it does ring a little hollow at times. But what it definitely is is smart and DAMN fun to read. Like watching a video essay on a scandal or reading a salacious Vox article. I'm shocked that it has as broad appeal as it does, since the main thing that's sticking with me was the portrayal of certain aspects of being a writer, and especially being a writer who is friends with other writers. But I guess maybe the ugly fucked up cocktail of emotions isn't as unique as I think it is.