It was hard to read this novel. Grossman presents us with mysteries and references that require both faith and patience -- they are amply rewarded. Part of what delays the intrepid reader is the time required just to absorb, to make connections, to take deep breaths, to sob. The horror and disgust that one expects in a holocaust novel are there, but what pulls us up short are the compassion and, yes, love that emerge in the most unlikely places. It would be no help to read a synopsis of this book or to have a guide to its mysteries, because you read it in your heart and in the aqueous subconscious. Reading is always an act of love, a tryst of imagination with the writer. When it really goes well, when the miracle occurs, a child, a book is produced between them. It hovers luminously in the aether - real, profound, fleeting. See Under: Love invites us to into that relationship, helps us visualize it, and transforms our sense of what this world really is. There is plenty to study, learn, and analyze in Mr. Grossman's incredible work, but my first reading was a sacred experience. This book sat on my shelf for about eleven years. I gave a first edition of it to a young man obsessed with the holocaust who died a year later of a mysterious disease. I thought picking it up would mean acknowledging his absence - instead it reassured me of his presence. Prepare to be surprised.