You're going to want to take small sips from this book. This is some seriously bleak shit...and I mean that in the best possible way.

Sullivan is a goddamn Jedi Master at exposing the enchanting pain and desolation of every character that shows up in this novel. He doesn't just bring characters onstage. No, Sullivan has them show up, look you in the eye, slap you hard against the face, then rub your nose in their agonies. And you friggin' thank him for it afterward.

I think it may have been Picasso--but don't quote me on that--that said something along the lines of, when you're painting someone's face, there is no ugly, only interesting. At first glance, this novel is ugly. Seriously, there's not a single virtuous person to be found here, but by the time the author finishes with you, you realize every one of these characters are interesting as hell in their banalities and day-to-day quirks. Quirks that you may not share, but you'll absolutely recognize.

How to describe Andrew Sullivan's narrative style? How to describe what he wrings out of this story?

Well, for one, I've never seen another author write quite like Sullivan does. I believe I said this when I reviewed his first collection of short stories, [b:All We Want Is Everything|17221800|All We Want Is Everything|Andrew F. Sullivan|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1370273285s/17221800.jpg|23721198], but he tends to give you a sentence or two, usually dialogue, that's occurring in the present, then he'll pop into background for a paragraph, then come back to a line or two in present, then back again. It's not constant, but it's frequent enough to be a signature style for him. It's a style that really shouldn't work. It should confuse the reader, or keep them off-kilter. Instead, it sets up a certain tension that makes for a dynamic and rewarding reading experience.

As for his style? Well, think of Elmore Leonard's seediest characters. Then, think of David Lynch pushing them through his particular brand of skewed craziness. You'll get a hint of the style of story you'll be reading.

But then there's the story itself. I'm not one to summarize a novel's plot and I'll be damned if I'll start now. Go read the description up at the top beside the cover. But I will say that it's twisted enough that, though it follows a conventional path, you'll never know precisely how its going to get there. But holy shit, the trip is worth it.

I also likely got an extra layer of enjoyment out of the story, as it takes place in Larkhill, a thinly-veiled version of Oshawa, Ontario, my home town. So when he talks about the Dynasty motel or Olive Rd, I know precisely where he's talking.

A couple of years back, I think I ended my previous review of Sullivan's book of short stories with the desire to see what he could pull off in a longer form narrative. Now I know.

Sullivan didn't disappoint in the least. This was every bit as fucked up and depraved and enjoyable as I would ever expect or want.

Bravo, dude.

This unusual and challenging debut novel, set in 1989 in fictional Larkhill, Ontario, has an urban-apocalypse, post-civilization vibe. It’s written as if its characters’ moral signposts have been obliterated by some cataclysmic event, and all that’s left to guide these people through their days are their immediate needs, urges and appetites. Andrew Sullivan begins his story with a scene of torture and murder, followed by a lethal encounter between a car and a lion on a road that runs through an industrial wasteland. After this, anything goes and pretty much does. The plot blends characteristics of two classic forms: the revenge tragedy and the quest, though sometimes it’s not entirely clear who’s seeking revenge against whom and why, and who is in quest of what exactly. To be fair, logic is more or less beside the point and absurdity abounds in these pages. The laughs, when they come, are of the horrified, dropped-jaw variety, usually in response to some intricately detailed scene of mayhem or dismemberment. Sullivan has peopled his fictional landscape with criminals, psychopaths, down-and-outers and lowlifes. With the sole exception of our hero-by-default Jamie Garrison—because he’s just about the only one left standing at the end—the characters are damaged, deformed, wounded, toothless, addled, addicted, obsessed, homicidal, suicidal, bigoted, stupid, unlucky, morally bankrupt, or some combination of the above. At least Jamie has a goal, which is to get through these catastrophic events in one piece (many of the characters don’t seem to even care about surviving). Not only does Waste not shy away from the vile and repugnant side of human nature, it revels in it. If there was ever a novel that the faint of heart should avoid, this is it. Andrew Sullivan’s literary impulse resides in the abandoned byways and shadowy backstreets of blighted America and takes inspiration from society’s dregs. The novel that he has written is gory and violent. It will turn the stomach of readers who prefer their fiction refined and polite. But anyone who toughs it out will agree that the story they have read is a powerful and unforgettable one narrated with verve and great confidence. Throughout the book, Sullivan stays true to his vision. The result of his efforts is noteworthy and quite possibly unique in Canadian literature. ( )