“We are creating the lineaments of some final man, for whose
delight we have prepared a landscape, and who can only be god.”
Sometimes it is possible to have a deep appreciation for a work of art, without any sense of attachment or engagement with it. Reading this short work of fiction was akin to looking at a painting in an art gallery. The genius of the artist is clear and yet the image leaves you cold.
In some ways , the subject matter, the poet Ovid’s encounter with the wild boy, perfectly describes my sense of attraction yet distance from the text. I was draw in by the beautiful cacophony of words, expertly weaved together in a harmonious tapestry, and yet I longed for more of a story.
It recalled a dreamlike state, where images floated by without a solid anchor to a more plot centric device. I wanted to dislike the book, frustrated as I was with the sense of displacement, and yet I still hold it in high regard for it encompassed a real sense of beauty and perfectly encapsulated the notion of exile. Such economy of words, reminiscent of poetry, which is so apt given the character of Ovid. I am perplexed by this odd interaction with the text, yet entertained. 4 out of 5, thanks again to Nicki for the lend of this one.