This book left me conflicted. For the most part it was a self-indulgent dirge that lumbered on with essay upon essay on all manner of things in a seemingly deliberately obtuse way that had me looking through the page and really having to force myself to read and take in the tangled and thorny mess of words in front of me. Inversely, every now and then the book would come alive all at once and at times I laughed out loud at Huysman' absurdist imagery or found delight in the decadent descriptions of flowers and such which thrilled all 5 senses. For the most part, these moments of brilliance are obscured by the torturous bore that blankets 90% of the pages, but Chapter 11 was a revelation in imagery, storytelling, and pacing. Perhaps it glowed every brighter against the rest of the book which is, on the whole, decidedly dull. Very conflicted indeed.