While McCarthy is a deft writer, this novel felt superfluous. A sibling book to The Passenger, it failed to provide any additional backstory to enhance the first book. An ongoing dialogue between a young woman and her therapist in a psychiatric facility – using McCarthy’s signature lack of attribution – was essentially Portnoy’s Complaint without the masturbation references. It felt more like McCarthy showing off his knowledge of math, physics and philosophy while masking his limitations in these subjects by conveying them through a character with mental illness. I’m certain there are some deep philosophical gems to be considered, but I was mostly bored from the outset.