This novel announces the author’s arrival on the literary scene much like a wet fart announces, "Hey, someone's here in the next stall."
His use of endlessly indulgent backstory as a substitute for character is as unconvincing as an icing-smeared child's insistence that he didn't eat the chocolate cake. Meanwhile, the plot bounces from long-winded digression to irrelevant revelation as nimbly as a nonagenarian slipping in the shower. Worst of all, his smug sense of superiority comes off about as humbly as a preacher secretly hiding his erection behind the pulpit.
Overall, I'd rate it "A fun summer beach read."