If nothing else, read The Flamethrowers for language. The vitality of the prose is breathtaking, and Rachel Kushner’s immense talent for description and relentless deployment of offbeat metaphor are extraordinary and bewitching. As to the plot, it’s a captivating examination of class, gender, and identity that utilizes as its subjects a handful of mostly—but beguilingly—fictional events and persons spanning the 20th century. Bits and pieces of odd but mesmerizing stories accrete haphazardly, offering moments of insight that are too brief to resolve, and it’s this open-endedness that prods the reader forward, however turbulently. And that’s how it needs to be, as the central story—the one of Reno the young artist; the quiet girl from Nevada; the intrepid motorcyclist; the patient narrator—is a messy one of indeliberate identity seeking, of a slow shifting from observation to action, and what it takes to ultimately force her hand is shocking but, by the novel’s end, inevitable.