Poetic, mythical account of boyhood, with what appears to be an exercise in the free association ultimately sabotaging the flow of any kind of narrative. There is, undeniably, some fine writing here, and some rich ideas, atmosphere and imagery. The problem is that it doesn’t hang together or deliver in any kind of a coherent way. Something of a shame perhaps, although it’s refreshing that such a book has survived in print. Had a path or thread be given to the reader to hold on to, things may have been different, though overall, this is just a little too sprawling.