It took me a really long time to read this book, because it killed me to go through it. I fell head over heels for Lev Grossman when I stumbled upon a tattered copy of The Magicians at a flea market. There is something about the way he writes that gets to me. He’s not particularly sophisticated or anything. Just kind of….ugh…real. This book? This book made me feel like I know the man too well. Like he’s a lover that I have become accustomed to. A lover who I see exceptionally well. Am I the only one who reads this way? It can be a little scary, truth be told. Not because I mind understanding others through their writing, so much as I am terrified that someone might come to understand me through my own. It’s so weird. It’s sort of like the person is told through the story, instead of the story through the person. I loved Codex and I loved The Magicians. But this book? I can’t quite put into words how I feel about this book. In fact I can’t even put it in to stars. Because sometimes it was five stars and sometimes it was one star. Why? Sometimes the misogyny showed so hard that I wanted to smack it away. Sometimes it was like Mr Grossman was mocking the story instead of telling it. And sometimes? Well sometimes, especially when he was telling Julia’s side of the story, there was this soft, beautiful understanding laced with so much incredible love that it was impossible not to be infected by all of it. Not only did I come to understand (and relate to!) Julia completely, but I also could not help but come to love her as she was handled and told with such affection that it was contagious. Maybe that is crazy. Maybe I “read” too much into things. But there is a very special presence in this book which I can’t deny. And that special presence made all the other foibles forgivable. Because that’s how we love, isn’t it? Completely. All inclusively. Warts and all.