Overall, I really enjoyed the book, but I think I came into it expecting something a little bit more overtly fictitious. It is like a narrative essay, really, which isn't exactly what I had expected based on the description I first heard about it. I had gotten the impression that this peculiar story, that takes place over the course of an escalator ride, would be more fantastical in its tangents and ramblings. The first few chapters gave me the feeling that it would be like that possibly, so I devoured them.

There is nothing wrong with it being a narrative essay, and actually it is masterfully written. His ramblings and observations are so meticulously detailed, and he ties so many of these tangents back into other ones. While reading it, you get the feeling that you are thinking these thoughts yourself in a way, and not just listening to someone tell their story. I think to myself like this all the time, or even imagine myself explaining little observations like these to other people. It makes it feel surreal in a way, even though it is actually quite a no-nonsense realistic narrative. I say 'no-nonsense,' but that does not mean it is not silly or humorous, because it certainly is. It feels like you are jumping back and forth through time seeing how it all compounds on itself as he jumps between different narrative settings and times. Some of his observations are really relatable, like his rant about the replacement of paper towels with air dryers in bathrooms. His playful comparison of the stylistic development of trains, staplers, and record player arms was so unexpectedly clever that I kept chuckling my way through it.

It doesn't have a serious tone at all––it is rather buoyant in fact––but it has a certain depth that is hard to place. It is strangely relatable. It is the plain narration of someone's thoughts, and the candor can hit hard at times, even on a light subject. There is a strong atmosphere of appreciation, not just about weird little details about milk cartons or ear plugs or shoelaces, but about people and society in general. Like his description of the person tossing out a cigarette in the car in front of him, and how they possibly do that because they know the joy of seeing it create fireworks on the road for drivers behind them. His description of his and his father's affinity for quality ties was really cute. It was a really subtle story of their love and bond, especially as he alludes in many ways to how those tastes and habits relate to others of his.

While I really liked the book, it took me a little longer to get through the second half. I think this has to do with it being mostly a narrative essay about miscellaneous topics relating to his mundane life. There isn't much of a plot, per se, so you have to really be interested in his somewhat tedious descriptions of things in his life. They are really well-written and intriguing, but I think if you don't read through the book fast enough that the charm can wear off. I don't think this is a flaw in the book at all, but perhaps says more about my state. I spend so much time reading and writing serious non-fiction that I have been really craving some straight up fiction.

One other thing is that, unlike other books where I tend to highlight phrases I like, in this book I ended up having to highlight whole sections. This is because in many cases the whole topic or way he approach it is so fascinating, but also because the style in which it is written is somewhat long-winded. There are so many run-on sentences that you often can't reasonably quote just a portion of one without obscuring what was so interesting about that phrase.

I have a feeling I will return to this book at some point years later. Not having much of a plot, it depends on following along somewhat voyeuristically. I guess when I am in the mood for some quality people watching I will crave it again. Or I can picture it being a good fit for traveling, when you are in new places and situations having lots of new thoughts and observations of your own.