Self-regardingly box-ticking like a preening popinjay of American literary workshops (oh how I loathe that word), We the Animals bounds into our readerly arena like a snow leopard but it turns out to be your neighbour's moggy with an off-white rug draped over it. 
 I thought it wasn't anywhere near the five-star foams nor yet the one-star fleshtearing burn-the-witch gnashes neither. It was a damned 3 star not-bad what-else-have-you-got kind of God-damned normally novelised autobiography/shortstorycollection bookmeld which has been going on since at least Dandelion Wine by Ray (now there was a writer) Bradbury in 1957 and prolly way back b4 that too, I could wiki that but I dint. 
 The thing is, we is totally spoiled with great current American writers of Heisenbergian crystal blue prose, you have heard me radiate on this subject many times so I will just mention in passing MatthewKlamRustyBarnesJunotDiazDonaldRayPollockHarperJordanGeorgeSaundersAlissaNuttingthat's enough but I could GO ON and Justin Torres is all right but not there yet. 
 Boxes ticked in this novel : 
 Voice of an ethnic minority - check 
 Gay - check 
 Extreme poverty - check 
 Working class - check 
 Arse-end of America - check 
 Elliptical style beloved by little magazines and award ceremonies - check 
 We will see about Mr Torres when he produces his Difficult Second Album.