Not P but Solenoid. (I so want to read this but who has enough time?)

[Mark Kohut]

this novel, anti-novel, getting incredible attention and
this from a fine NYT review I post because part of Pynchon
is that ole paranoia rag:

He practices a sweeping solipsism that makes of paranoia a kind of
totalizing faith. Every event, image or experience, whether common or
outlandish, throbs with sinister meaning. Objects and memories from
childhood bloom with late, apocalyptic significance in adulthood. Dreams
contain legible clues for the arresting puzzles of waking life. This is the
world as pure conspiracy, a web of impossibly esoteric interconnection. The
book’s maximalism is no mere formalist tic, then, but a matter of
necessity. Only a novel so sprawling, so unexpected, so incongruous could
house such a sublime neurosis.