Quite a read. Kind of sci-fi, kind of fantasy, kind of internal mindscape and 'feelscape'. A lot of symbolic stuff going on, philosophical in an indirect and mystical way, the success of which we can all debate. I'm not sure, but depends on the reader, and worthwhile for most who are game to read this kind of stuff all the same. Definitely a unique work (though I haven't read Lyndsay's others, which I'd be happy to do). One of the 'lost classics' of the early 20th century, almost, though probably not quite, perhaps. Lots of movement, transformation, shifted and differently-illuminated perspectives, changing environment and meanings of environment, impulse and inevitability, murder, fate and ridiculous luck, the banality of mortality and the relativity of meaning, and all also kind of focused subtly on that 'interspace' of relationships and pushing and pulling of power and weakness and will and submission and breathing into and parasitically sucking out of. The whole mess of life and the motion of the universe perhaps, simultaneously meaningful and harshly indifferent. Perhaps an early attempt at something along the lines of imagining our universe by stepping outside of it, or turning it inside out, perhaps, or both and more, with a splash of previously never-seen colours. Maybe a bunch of nonsense, but quite readable and thought-provoking nonsense all the same.