One of the pullquotes on the front cover of this novel heralds it as “wildly inventive.” (Another is written by Barack Obama.) That reviewer must have read a different copy, because nowhere here do I see the invention, except in Whitehead’s repetitive, fetishistic litany of horrors. He is unfortunately not imaginative enough to conceive of fully-wrought characters with interesting interiors, or of a slavery story that truly leaps into the unknown as Toni Morrison’s work did. This novel lacks the benefit of both grounding and romance, leaving it stranded in an uninteresting middle where themes and motifs are driven home with sledgehammer force. Django Unchained – a movie I despise – is more daring, somehow. Meanwhile, scenes jumble moments together, and sequences jumble scenes together, until certain chapters become chronologically confused, the flow of logic and narrative failing to cohere. This novel fails in theme, character, plot, and conception. I sped through it, hoping to put it behind me. Finally, at the end, I turned the page and found Whitehead’s author photo, waiting for me like Judge Holden in the outhouse – .