Lyrical, poignant and utterly honed perfection until somewhere in the middle where it sunk with the weight of artifice. I, more than most, did not want the genderless narrator to matter, because, yes, it shouldn't. But, unfortunately I found it an unnecessary, indulgent, clunky conceit. And Winterson came close to pulling it off, but ultimately the novel, that was destined to be winged, sunk swathed, adled in all its post-modern clothes. The anatomical descriptions are beautiful, achingly so, but redundant, unlikely. Ah, so desperately close to greatness, and it would have been had it not been for its "experiential" nature. Kudos for stylistic bravery though. But, damnation, with my hopes so soaring, the landing was a bruise.