When I read something Crowley wrote, I'm always measuring it against Little, Big, and this doesn't measure up to that, though in some respects it seems like Little, Big's rough draft (down to the Daily love interest with a unibrow). The prose is lovely and dense just how I like it and the ending is poignant enough to make up for what feels like a disconnected and incomplete narrative. The book is also deeply steeped in my least favorite sci-fi trope, namely: white people in the post-apocalypse taking on indigenous mannerisms. A deeply strange, beautiful book that I admired but didn't love.