I really must get better about booklogging more promptly after I finish reading a book, because when it comes right down to it, in the final accounting there's no visible difference between the books about which I had nothing whatsoever to say and the books about which I had many insightful and fascinating thoughts which were forgotten by the time I came to write them down. And while there is little I can do about the former case except feel vaguely guilty, the latter case is infuriating to me.
All that is by way of saying, as I am sure is obvious, that I can't remember what on earth I might have wanted to say about this, as its specifics have faded in my mind, leaving behind only a sense of something closely akin to awe - because it really is an incredibly good book. The interleaving of past and present is very skillfully done, I remember that much, and the story of Young Roland is almost painfully compelling.
...sorry. This is a lame review, and I have nothing to blame it on but my own procrastination. It is certainly not the fault of the work in question that I was unable to hold its state in my head for so long. Though in my defense, I feel I should point out that since then I've read a fantasy of manners, a Brandon Sanderson book, and approximately one-third of the Baroque Cycle, so my brain has had some competition for its time.
