I usually can find literary merit in most of the books I read and I rarely give out anything less than three stars. But when you sit and stare at a blank wall over reading another sentence of a book, you know you have a one-star read in hand. Haig wants to revel in the awe of the universe in every single moment of every single page. Three pages on orange juice. Three pages on the degrees of infinity. Three pages contemplating this and three pages contemplating that. The Life Impossible was all the wrong combination of boring and odd and I would vehemently suggest you skip this one.