I have a feeling if I'd read this as part of a collection, I would have liked it more. I'm pretty fond of Saunders' work, generally, and I see that this is equal to some of it. Somehow, though, the mere fact that it has been published as a book on its own made me expect something . . . more? . . . different? I don't know. It works as an experiment, or a diversion, or a postmodern fable, but it just doesn't have the substance to stand itself up, and I find myself less pleased by the reading than by the fact that I got a free copy and saved myself $13.00.