Stilted prose. Lotsa narm.
If figurative language is potpourri, then this book is that crazy old cat lady's house down the block. Wooh. Overpowering. Makes your figurative eyes water and figurative temples pound.
It's like that kid with the Axe deodorant who's like "This smells good!" WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH
The book walks a fine line between poetic and stupid, dramatic and narmy, holocaust and lolocaust.
Personally, I find it's on the negative end of all three, but it could just be that I'm a negative person.
I read a few chapters in and then began to stall when the language began to stagnate and reek, when it became apparent that the characters revealed were all cardboard "Fascist pigs" vs "Tolerant, Jew-supporting, Fuhrer-hating protagonists", when the narrator decided to give away a major spoiler (which was stupid move, not bold), and when the plot decided it was going nowhere.
I cannot tell you exactly how many times I stopped reading to roll my eyes at the author's latest attempt to appear poetic and thoughtful, but it was quite a few.