This is the sort of book title that provokes all sorts of sexist comments from the xy kind. Then again, I suppose my friends are just playfully misogynistic.
The book was dreamy and airy by the sentence. The author is eloquent and this eloquence is haunting in quality. I especially liked the wide use of water: from the Great Flood to the lake water housing the body of the (narrator's) grandfather to the fleeting reflections of oneself imbued on the waves.
The plot itself was worn-out, I thought: orphans, outcasts, loneliness, change. But there's something about the tone of narration, an impassivity, a detachment. I felt like I was reading the thoughts of someone who was not the daughter of the dead mother or the wandering 'transient' without home.
It's not so bad, you know. Not at all.
