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I read this in a single day at the airport and on the plane. It was one of those novels I could not put down. However, it felt as if I were reading two different novels. To the first I give five stars, to the second only one or two. The first novel was a Shakespearean-style tragedy: profound and insightful. Despite a small note of optimism, it was a grim piece, yet somehow comforting in its examination of human frailty; it brought me to tears many times, and the language was simple and beautiful. The second novel was a clichéd, contrived, unreal, Hollywoodesque creation, complete with a politically correct (because Aryan!) villain and an unlikely "show-down." The narrator had to redeem himself somehow, but surely there could have been a less far fetched way to do it?