If John Mistletoe is Kit Morley's personal testament, this book is his personal psychoanalysis. The fact that he kills himself off at the end- and that he uses ""Zoe"" as his analyst, and notes and diaries and unmailed confession-letters and dialogues as his media -- simply indicates that he refuses to be pigeonholed. To crib from his own too quotable text, ""This isn't a novel, it's an ordeal"" -- if attempted at a normal reading stretch. Take it as you'd take a collection of epigrams, aphorisms, puns...and use the index (if you treat yourself to a limited edition) to make the most of his subtleties and cryptogenic vocabulary. (At times even the dictionary failed me -- but I like to run words and phrases to their secret lairs.) It's a very sophisticated book, a highbrow book, the sort of book that will roll up a substantial intellectual snob appeal sale. A slender thread of plot links the bits of the puzzle together in the story of a literary agent who is advised by his love (who is also his analyst) to take a vacation and get acquainted with That Man who stalks his waking hours. There's an odd kind of philosophy and wisdom almost buried in the surfeit of clever phrases. An impossible book to describe and a difficult book to place. You might use Saki as analogy (though personally I find Saki just as titillating and more comprehensible).