I tried hard to like this book, but I just could not make progress. Perhaps I am not in the right mood for this style of writing. It all seemed rather smug in places, and even the more interesting lyrical passages would get wrecked by a nod and a wink to the reader. For instance, p.181:
'...Daniel Gluck taking leaf of his senses at last, his tongue a broad green leaf, leaves growing through the sockets of his eyes, leaves thrustling (very good word for it) out of his ears, leaves tendrilling down through the caves of his nostrils and out and round till he's swathed in foliage, leafskin, relief.'
I would usually like writing like this, especially the poetic license on words like 'thrustling' and 'tendrilling'. But that parenthesis troubles me. I do not want the narrator telling me what is a 'good word' or not, unless it is clear that this passage is indeed an interior monologue. Perhaps it is? At this stage of the book I was confused and a bit irritated by the whole thing. So upon reading this passage - which was almost great - I put the book down and will read no further. I have given this book too many chances, and life is too short to read to the end and face further disappointment.