Painfully pretentious and drowning in a mess of its failed aspirations, it’s always a bad thing when an author becomes too fond of the sound of their own voice. Characters, ideas, feelings, and stories are lost under the weight of what I can only presume is Winterson’s creative vanity. While arguably intelligent she lacks the poetic ability required to pull off a style like this, using language which distracts and detracts from the world she is struggling to present. A wonderful imagination is compromised by trying far too hard to be lyrically interesting, leaving its subjects as crude and sloppy afterthoughts to the writer’s aspirations. A great shame, because there would otherwise be a lot here to like; curious and observant visions wrapped in a fantasy motif. Sadly, it is a book that systematically fails on just about every level.