I've labeled this piece a book, but I think it may really be a song
disguised as a sheaf of pages. It's funny - I've avoided reading it for
years, purely because I loathed the title - all that time I've been
missing out on one of the loveliest little novels I've ever experienced. Winterson's writing is as exotically musical as any of the finest compositions by Mozart and Hindemith, or
perhaps the gold-threaded concerti of Aram Khachaturian; as sensually,
synaesthetically pleasing as a night breeze, a glass of darkest china
tea, a sea of ragged-edged silks. An enchanted fairy-tale of sailing
ships, never-before-seen fruits from unmapped countries, twelve dancing
princesses, gardeners of kings, a giantess with a flock of hounds and
one far-reaching, roving, foundling son. Do read it; you couldn't
possibly regret doing so.
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