A disturbing book, beautiful but bothersome, full of raw animal instinct and passion. (Boston Globe)
My thoughts (hastily scribbled on a postcard):
An enigmatic book. The author seems to stand back and take Wilde’s advice, that art should reflect the audience and not the artist… Does it pass judgements on the events within, such as incest? I don’t think so: one thing seems naturally to lead to another. But do we end up with the reasonableness of, say, incest, or the corruption of reason which leads to it seeming natural?
Or is it about me, who just can't make up his mind?
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