You want to write a novel that explores, as a theme, the fundamental irrationality of the human spirit? Well, one way to do it is to wrap it all—behavioral contradictions, unfulfilled intentions, unexplained hatreds, incongruous humors, self-inflicted harms, underserved friendships, and general fluttering moodiness: action in conflict with the soul, basically—within a deceptively simple outline: a mother is extremely upset by her son experiencing a love apart from her own. You don't expect the novel to be as fast and as jumpy as it turns out to be, given the era. And, being sold a fable, you don't expect to be given a narrative that really makes no logical sense, and characters who don't behave the way storytelling deems they should; in fact, the omniscient narrator doesn't seem to even know what the big picture is, often hovering the camera closely over the shoulder of someone who doesn't seem at all to know where they are going. Can a writer tasked with placing the world into narrative order actually get away with telling a story about how the world doesn't really have any, where causes have no effects, effects have no causes, lessons don't seem to even exist, there are no villians, and there are most certainly no heroes? I don't know, but this one sure comes close. Four stars.