This book took me way longer to finish than I would've liked, and I feel like a near month's break I took in the middle definitely hurt some of the momentous momentum it has. Invisible Man at times reads more like a collection of short stories, if only for the miraculously structured chapters and expansive situations it traverses, traveling from genre to genre, at times Kafka-esque body horror, at others pure social satire. The varying shades and tones are not an oversight, however, but rather the rare case of a novel whose point is seen most clearly through a kaleidoscope, communicating not a summarizable idea but an entire way of looking at the world, one where subjugation is a near inevitable death sentence, where visibility is a constant battle, and where ideology is just the raw meat charlatans butcher and sell to the masses. Bleak, hilarious, and always flowing (seriously, the prose in this is just outstanding Americana), Invisible Man lives up to its reputation as a genuinely unclassifiable enigma in the canon.