I know it when I see it.

Current book: Tropic of Cancer
Pages read: 208-318 (end)

Thank God it's over. It stayed pretty much the same. For a while the narrator got a job teaching school, but he hated it (and I shudder to think of the damage he did his students), and eventually his sugar daddy friend invited him back to Paris. He went back and promptly convinced the guy to leave his pregnant lover and return to America, while he, the narrator, took the 2800 francs that were supposed to go to the girl. Afterward, sitting in cafe, the narrator decided that he should go to America, too. Only there was a helluva lot more sex than what I just described.

Absolutely no redeeming value. The worst part, aside from the lack of plot and the completely gratuitous vulgarity, was that the narrator's main reason for abandoning all social mores was to pursue pleasure above all else, but none of the things he did made him happy in the least. So he wasn't just a hedonistic asshole, he was a whiny, angsty hedonistic asshole.

I have no further comment. Let us never speak of this novel again.