This book is a fever dream- even for something written in 1899, it was SLOW, though the prose was so vivid and had such a weird, tripping-along sort of momentum to it. It gives me a better appreciation for the equally fever dream-esque Apocalypse Now, which is definitely a spiritual successor to this plotless mess. I like the movie for what it is and appreciate it more for having read this book, and while the writing itself was compelling, there is simply no way to know what's really happening at any point or why it's happening in the first place. None of the gravity in the last few pages is backec up by anything, so it all falls flat. This is a weird relic of literature for sure.