Without question the least, the most ephemeral of the novels by Erickson that I've read—which means, Zeroville excluded, the lot of 'em. Allegedly the most autobiographical fiction he has penned, Amnesiascope presented the heretofore absent scenario of finding myself bored with select portions of the authorial vision, in particular his presentation of an apocalyptic Los Angeles basin ringed by concentric circles of quake/riot-spawned fire and its tethered curtain of ash. The time-zone shifts; the fading personality and absence/reemergence of dreams; the sinuous oneiric cinema and shadowy pursuits, the slinkily porous sexual liaisons; the reappearance of tropes and characters from his earlier (and stronger) novels; it was just all so tepidly handled. Perhaps it was the juxtaposition of this with the crisp and potent workout of Yes, with barely room for a breath in between, but I had to force myself to stay the course with this one—its mere two hundred and twenty-five pages notwithstanding—to make it through to the emotionally charged, but somehow flat conclusion. Almost every theme mulled over or shaped anew for Amnesiascope's melancholic meandering and dystopian snapshots was better presented and more cohesively structured and, most importantly, enigmatically compelling in the works that bookend this one. While undoubtedly more emotionally explorative than chaotically or surreally, Erickson nonetheless showed in Our Ecstatic Days that he can work such an angle with an assured flair. I'd suggest reading this one if you feel the need to complete the canon or are on a dystopian kick and need another (and unusual) fix—if you are new to Erickson, I would strongly suggest seeking elsewhere for your point of entry. Two-and-a-half stars, rounded up because I'm a big fan and giving the dreamy dude two-stars would break my heart.
