Heady, lush, pretentious, calculatedly poetic, unrelentingly beautiful, blatant wish-fulfillment. Always just toeing (and occasionally crossing) the line of sheer ridiculousness, but somehow, it worked.

It was a little creepy how many symbols from my own personal mythology featured heavily: keys, trains, maps, lists, the City, the power of dreams. (Apparently I am not a beautiful and unique snowflake.)

Many many layers of metaphor. Sex as a method of exploration, a key that unlocks a part of the world you would otherwise never reach. Inner/outer worlds echoing each other, becoming interchangeable. Escapism in the truest sense.

Even now I'm not sure if I loved this book because it was actually good, or if it was just one of those trashy addictive things I loved despite its trashiness. At its best moments it was Borges or Gaiman, at its worst, Poppy Z. Brite. Either way I devoured it.

The world was amazing and her development of the characters quite skillful. The plot could have been tighter and I'm still not sure how I feel about the ending.