Ever had a story that brings you along, apparently nothing happening at first, seemingly mundane, then to find that this mundane thing was a background for which a climatic event would occur, and yet, after that, find that even after the climax was not the resolution, and you are brought back to the mundane things, though of course, no one can escape unchanged after the climax, still it was more or less back to normal, then in the midst of all that, you find yourself swept along to another climax, where you find the centerpiece of the entire works, and yet, that is not sufficient, and you are swept along even more to an even greater climax, and at last, you meet the resolution, only to not meet it as a resolution, but a climax of its own rights...
Such is the story of Till we have Faces. I am quite tempted to describe what happens and everything, to share the greatness of the Mythos, which is at the same time not Myth at all. In fact, 90% of my readers will probably never read that story, and perhaps half of those who read will probably not last until they reach all the climaxes, and of the remaining, perhaps another half would had already read the book, and even of those who will read it, there will be those who do not enjoy it as I do. (It is not easy reading, and I must confess, even I left it for a couple of weeks before I reached all the exciting parts)
But for the remnants, I shall preserve the story, in its untouched form, so that Lewis' genius will not be soiled by one as me.
So, no spoilers =p
