was this a satire of suburban family life, a horroresque exploration of the aftermath of the artist's work, or a comedic faux-autobiographical self-reflection of his trauma? In the end, the many paths the book explored didn't line up to come to a point where it felt necessary to have taken those paths. It just didn't add up. That said, the last pages are probably the most beautiful pages I have ever seen Ellis write. I can't remember if I ever cried that much because of a book. You can really get the sense that he truly loved his father. It just left me with the question: Were the 400 pages of drug-infused paranoia really that necessary to come to this point? The answer for me is: Unfortunately no.