I am a fan of Geoff Dyer's novels, but his nonfiction has become a series of self-indulgent trips up the author's own ass. I am tired of reading about Dyer's tennis injuries, about taking drugs, about Burning Man. There is a footnote in this volume on his anxiety upon seeing a roll of toilet paper with only a few sheets left, for God's sake. Making connections is a sign of intelligence, and learning about them can make for enjoyable reading, but when the connections are obscure, tenuous and ingrown, the book needs to be thrown against a wall. There is a small amount of value here, directing a reader to other books and bits about Nietzsche and Beethoven, but much more that is unrewarding and tedious.
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