A majority of Vollmann's works can be separated into two categories. These categories are, broadly, his meticulous and uncompromising passion projects... and then the trauma-porn hack-journalism that finances them. The Atlas is an exception in that it exists as a consequence of the latter. Burdened with a wealth of unshared experiences and blessed with self importance, the traveler has just got to tell you about this one time when they were abroad. In an overly-ambitious attempt to breach the boundary between travel-novel trash and writing of a higher order, Vollmann stitches together vignettes from his life as a war correspondent and globe-trotter to create this deeply flawed collection of stories.

The Atlas implements this recursive structure of serializing stories, grouping the first and last stories, the second and second to last, etc., which just does not really work at all. Even the most diligent reader will forget the first of the matched stories by the time they get to the far side of the 60 page titular climax. Personally, I see this style choice as a kind of cop out, an assertion that there is a theme and a greater importance to these mostly random narratives.

Random is the keyword here. Some of these stories are likely non-fiction, others clearly fictional, some impressionistic smatterings best classified as ramblings. It's frustrating to not know what is real and what isn't in a work like this. By the time one gets acclimated to the style and setting, they are dragged to the next country, to a brand new brothel or flophouse. Worst of all, after a demoralizing slough through the seediest rooms across several nations, you're met with the most heartbreakingly beautiful prose of all time, if only for a moment. So you read on.