Before I go any further, I must say that I know Ben Constable. Not the character from the book... but the author! I met Ben as part of a training program that gradually evolved into a coaching program (another of his great qualities).
Still as a preamble, although I consider myself a good reader, reading a book in English is a real challenge for a French reader. Nevertheless I launch into my literary criticism sincerely hoping that my appreciation is not be too influenced by knowledge of the author. That being said... back to the book.
After reading the first pages with my dictionary next to me so much the level of language seemed to me sought and particularly chosen, I literally got caught up by the story and the characters. After the confusion of the first pages where I was disturbed by the presence of this author/character, the story took over.
The first impression I had was a strange feeling of enchantment. The style is striking, the words are chosen, the music of the text and its colour are attractive, the plot seems both zany and plausible... It is as if the story gradually takes possession of the reader. You know, like those novels that you can't bring yourself to close, at night, in your bed.
It is as if a certain poetic magic was working and that a discreet but more and more present music in your mind aroused your interest. And at the same time, as the real and pragmatic Cartesians we are, we can only note that the more we progress in the book, the more we get confused.
Imagine instead! Ben receive a letter from Tomomi (Butterfly) informing him that she will be dead by the time he reads the letter; the letter explains that she is leaving something for him; then begins a treasure hunt of kinds that will lead Ben to finding out more about Butterfly and her life; the book takes place in Paris with some brilliant descriptions of various streets and locations (for a subject of Her Majesty the Queen of the United Kingdom) ; then we switch to New York where the treasure hunt continues with also brilliant descriptions and wonderful viewpoints on the city; finally we discover that the treasure left by Butterfly are notebooks (with detailed past events in Butterfly's life); each one links to death (at this stage you will ask yourself: is it real or does Butterfly have a very vivid imagination?)...
All these adventures and discoveries only reinforce our questioning: what is the limit between reality and fiction? How much of this is just imagination? What's this imaginary cat doing here? What is the meaning of the references to these great and eternal myths?
Then comes the ending of the novel which also gives us its share of doubts and surprises and real and confusing questions: what happened? What's going on here? Did all this really happen?
I can't describe if the end of the book is a metaphorical opening or if it simply reflects my own inability as a reader to fully understand its meaning. Anyway (and this is also the magic of writing and reading), it is a brilliant book, particularly well-written and pretty hard to put down until you know more...