First: ignore the title. This isn't woo-woo or jesusy: it's a haunting, almost sublime first-person tale of schizophrenia. There, that's out of the way.

The imagery is vivid. Narration is graceful, weaving snappily through time and space and characters. I found myself frequently pausing to take a breath, slow down, and start again a few pages back; pacing myself, letting myself stop and absorb. The story is sad but not in the way you'd expect: the narrator's perspective is curiously distant even though it's first-person. The sadness I felt was for our institutions, our helplessness.

This is probbly a 5-star book. My rating reflects my own ignorance: I'm not Icelandic, and there is too much that simply flew past me. Too much culture, too much background that I'm not even aware of not knowing. I'm glad there's a translation, and am glad to have read it, but I think it may be enjoyed more by more seasoned Icelandophiles.