Doloriad is a ride, man. It takes you by the hand—or the hair—through the brutal birth of new way of seeing, leaving you uncertain, at the end of the book, of true ends and beginnings.

Would love to hear better-read folx talk about it for a while (I can imagine there's some function that can turn to allusive what is elusive to me—get Aquinas in here, dammit!), because all my thoughts are scattered and unsettled—other than I love the prose, the bleary images.