Butler steps in and creates a whirling erotic novel that makes one appreciate all the subtleties of sexual relationships. Ira Halloway, the protagonist, lives for love (and sex, of course); he breaths it; he thrives on it. He carries the memories of his former lovers, memories that lie as secrets inside him. These women's voices whisper to him, reminding him of intimate moments: back in Vietnam as a soldier among cocoa-skinned prostitutes, in Illinois as a hormone-driven boy, in New York as a father-lover. The prose flows smoothly like his thoughts and Butler must get credit for this. Beautiful language. And most of the story takes place in Halloway's mind, where his brain tries to make sense of his landscape of lovers. He remembers the parts of women's bodies as though they are religious idols: the insteps, the toes, the rounded shoulders, the rose-tinted nipples, and just about every other crevice and appendage that a woman has. All these memories create nervous conflict. His wife, once the victim of incest, turns deeply religious---fanatical---and Halloway must tread lightly around her struggles or risk losing both her and, more importantly, their son. I enjoyed the book, and if I have anything critical to say about it, I'd have to accuse it as being long-winded and monotonous at times. Read it anyway and form your own opinion.