There are some poignant passages and metaphors that generate nice turns of phrase, but without a clear narrative structure I was left with very little to hang onto. To call this novel pretentious is an error but there is something problematic about the cloudy conceit and the philosophical descriptions which felt like recitations of a grad school reading list. It kept me at a distance and never let me get fully into the work. It was all feelings over actions, telling over showing, and side commentary using other theorists' ideas.

The title is beautiful and there are a few eruptions of prose that land (I am fond of chapter 9) but I'm not going to remember this book in a month.