Very unsure of what to make of it, as yet, which is an integral part of its charm. A love-letter to the beauty of life, in all its cyclical mundanity, told with all the bias of a sportsman and deftly disguised as a fairy-tale or fable. Started out in a straighforward manner, but split into several narrative strands after the initial fifty or so pages, which immediately added to its interest. Memorable narratorial interventions were made — the "historical fact" segment was hilarious, and I appreciate the Narrator's deference to Tennyson as a Poet. I am still pondering the ending, which is neither abrupt, exactly, nor undeserved by this text, but oddly wistful, which I imagine (upon reflection) is precisely what it is supposed to be.