Well, this is just about as bleak as it's possible to get. By and large, the only time when there isn't an overpowering sense of deep enduring misery is when the 1940's Chicago slang becomes entirely incomprehensible. There's little to like in any of the characters; perhaps I'm lacking in knowledge of the area and times, but there doesn't seem to be a desirable trait present anywhere in this book. A proper cast of lowlife petty hoodlums, drunks and junkies. It's not that other books don't feature such characters, it's just that normally there's a sense of possible escape, or sympathy for the character trapped in circumstances they're powerless to escape from. Not here. Every single person seems to be suited to their slum existence, with no motivation to try and escape from the cycle of depression and criminality by... trying to get a job, perhaps?

Still, there's no doubt that Nelson paints a very convincing portrait of the city's inner slums, or of the mindset of its protagonists. It's powerful stuff, but just too lacking in any kind of hope or redemption for humanity to be ranked up there in the top tiers of literature.