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A book written in prose but about poetry, but the lines are blurred: the prose is so poetic, evocative and often metaphorical, that the reader finds it to be a collection of narrative poems. It's also a book about the vagueness of language, and the sometimes impossibility of actually translating from one language to another and one way of thought to another; these difficulties are part of the plot and lead to the building of tension and the mysterious circumstances of the final chapters. Crowley again proves himself to be a top-notch writer, though this book is shorter and more intimate than the others by him that I've read, the epics called "Little, Big" and "Ka: Dar Oakley in the Ruin of Ymr".

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