If the Grateful Dead will always be stuck somewhere between band and cult, Epicureanism itself has been stuck between cult and philosophy since it was founded around 300 BCE.
Gloom and ambiguity blend to work the reader into a wonderful confusion. But it’s a useful confusion, one that expresses something fundamentally true about the world.
This is a story of the domestication of violence, of how the dark and malevolent is less likely to exist in the grimace of some supervillain in a top hat, and more in the strange smell coming from your neighbors’ basement.
While much contemporary experimental fiction concentrates on the failures of human communication — the liminal spaces — Gamboa seems more interested in how we finally succeed in sharing with each other.