Reading this "novel" is like wading through molasses. It's unbelievably slow and turgid -- and all about how the protagonist is a genius, but unrecognized in the world (and yet, what has Haller actually ever done? He's only special because Hesse tells us so). It's hard to believe that this is great literature when we have the likes of Joyce, who can draw us a character going through existential despair in a few pages, and leave you aching.
Any story in "Dubliners" has more depth and feeling than the whole "Treatise of the Steppenwolf", and in fewer pages by far.
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