There are many who love this work, and I can understand its appeal. And I admit, I would never have chosen this book on my own from its premise: a small village in Armenia, slowly aging into extinction, and the lives of those who pass away there. 

But of course, this is not what Abgaryan is about, merely. As with its people, readers must allow this work to unfold slowly on its own terms. Don't look for an actionable plot or a direction for resolution of conflict here. Each character, richly revealed through memory and routine, grows or fails to, understands or not, reaches out or lives apart, and asks for little more than is found underfoot. Keep waiting, reader, through the better part of its pages, thinking you may at last have put your finger on a theme or significance.

But that expectation, too, may be thwarted. There is magic here, a mystery or four, a suspicion, a new uncovering perhaps, but this, too, happens on its own terms, and we may not recognize it at first or for some time after, just as its characters. And what we make of it, too, may be hope or resignation, satisfaction or love, but at least the promise of something more.

As you can tell, this is not a traditional novel, but I recommend it for the experience of it, not the "novel" of it, and that may be its highest compliment.