I'm not sure if I really know how to read this book -- I think much of it went over my head, and, perhaps, if I had read it much slower, I would have been able to pick apart all of the details of each entry and pieced together a much more coherent vision of the book. But I didn't. Instead, for better or for worse, I let it wash over me, and have more of a collection of effects from the book rather than a solid understanding. To me, it was a beautiful meditation on love, loneliness, death, our relationship to ourselves, and to other people. It seemed to take an especially lonely and futile look at love and connection, possibly suggesting that they are ideals that can never be reached. And yet, while the book seemed to suggest the human experience is brutal, I didn't really get the sense that life is devoid of meaning. Maybe the very recognition of life as futile, or maybe something inward, something holy provides meaning. The sheer density of skill and tenderness of language used in the text astounded me. I feel I could have sat with every sentence for several minutes -- maybe an hour -- but then I would have never finished it, so I did with it what I could. I think I could read this over and over again and probably should. A true pleasure, even if difficult sometimes to piece together.