Like the earlier J.P.Drapeau work, this presents another version of the philosophical core of the whole book, the book as this House of Spare, transposed as the structure of all our body parts as a single body-gestalt with the metaphor of optically stained-glass apertures looking in and looking out, originally spare or antiseptic inside, a "spiritual wasteland", with the apertures shuttered before birth, with an unknown outside, an outside eventually bearing in on the post-birth self, a birth, as if forged by the shape of the house's turreted erection. Inaccessible, but something does permeate the reader involuntarily. About a haunting and an exorcism with spiritual crises and kaleidoscopes of colours to spice the weird plot, dense and textured with dark theosophies, and in many ways, for me, delightfully inaccessible, like the building of this book itself. On one level, a post-Lovecraftian vision of Bulwer-Lytton's 'The House and the Brain' or Danielewski's 'House of Leaves' or Poe's various houses.
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