I can't say I loved it, but I do respect the bold "mysticism" of the book, or at least its stuborness in attacking the problem of the indescribable self. Read as a philosophical novel or as a romantic novel (as it is described on the back cover) this book would likely fail both tests. And so we're left with the mystical/spritual/quasi-religious novel, and while there were bits I liked quite a bit (even though I often teetered on the edge of annoyance with some of the prose) the project itself may not be one I get much from, other than the occasional beautiful concordance of images or linguistic threads. I could see myself enjoying this a lot more on a reread.