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and the verdict is breddy gud

Rob Doyle is a very /lit/ writer. He's a bookish young man writing about bookish young men for the most part.
Some might see that as a limitation, but since I'm a bookish young man myself, I don't mind a bit.
I saw a bit of myself in some of the characters he writes about even though he's a potato and I'm a burger.

Like a lot of potatoes, he's much more well-travelled than my provincial suburban ass. Germany, Spain, Paris, Mexico, London, the settings are varied for these stories.

We've definitely read a lot of the same authors, including Nietzsczshe, Cioran, Joyce, Beckett, Borges, Sebald, Bernhard, Bataille and Burroughs. He seems like the type of potato who might drop in on /lit/ to shitpost from time to time.

He tries Burroughs cut-up method at one point. That was my least favorite part of the collection. It was pretty annoying even back when Burroughs first came up with it. Nobody else bothered picking it back up in the intervening 50 years with good reason. Naturally it's the title story.
In another story he tries to narrate from a psycotic's viewpoint. I wasn't convinced.
Those were my least favorite stories.

Also he seems to have a scat fetish or cloacal obsession when incest fetish is the true patrician fetish. But I nitpick. I was very impressed.

The first two stories really made an impression on me. Naturally the ones about mad, funny, sad, sensitive, gifted but futile young men. Men with an artistic sensibility but limited by mental illness and sadness. They're capable of moments of clarity, humor, and insight at times but it's never going to lead anywhere. Their mental illness is always going to limit them. I know a few guys like that and see aspects of it in myself.
It got me right in the feels. It shook me up enough that I felt compelled to write all this.